


Watch me

by dunklenacht310



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anxiety, Blowjobs, Bottom Zayn, Escort Service, Gay Sex, M/M, Mentions of drugs, Switching, Top Harry, X-Factor - Freeform, but only in one single scene, celeb crush, for the rest it's a Bottom Zayn through and through
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-09-25 10:35:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 62,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20375344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dunklenacht310/pseuds/dunklenacht310
Summary: "This is my biggest, most honest secret. And I’m giving it to you because I want to be stupid one more time, and believe you’ll cherish my real parts like you said you would. And if it bites me in the arse, you’ll just be another lesson I learn, I guess.”-Harry is an ex-singer who now just runs a wake-up show at Capital FM.Zayn is an escort, and he thinks that's the only thing he's good at.A small truth is that Zayn is Harry's fan, with a huge celeb crush on him.A big truth is that they both know the other is so, so much more. They only need the other toseeit.





	1. The cherry on top

**Author's Note:**

> For the small prompt I stumbled upon ages ago: _"Zayn is an escort, Harry's VIP"_.
> 
> Usual disclaimer: I don't know or own any of the characters present in this work. I only own the plot and any eventual original character. 
> 
> Another disclaimer: There will be some One Direction songs mentioned and quoted in this fic. In this AU, though, 1D never existed, so those songs will belong to Harry or Louis (or to both, in one case) for the sake of the plot.

Harry thought that when he abandoned his singing career for good, the meetings would be over.

It turns out that as long as you’re in showbiz, whatever you do, the meetings are _never _over.

He feels like he’s been sitting in his living room with his management for three days straight, even though he objectively knows it’s only been a couple hours. There was _so much _to do, apparently.

_Harry, we have to talk about you becoming an X-Factor judge._

_Harry, we have to talk about your program getting a regular slot in the Capital FM show schedule._

_Harry, we have to talk talk talk._

Harry likes to talk, but he prefers doing it by himself, in his radio booth at 7 a.m., with headphones on and a mic in front of his mouth.

If he didn’t like that, he wouldn’t have put his singing career on a permanent hiatus only to then become a radio jockey.

It’s a nightmare anyway. Being a singer made him quite famous, so even now that people almost never see him if not for a couple of public events, he’s still a celebrity. And deciding to accept Simon Cowell’s offer of becoming an X-Factor judge for the upcoming season didn’t help. Sometimes, Harry kinda misses actual _music_, and he hadn’t been able to resist the lure of scavenging for new talents and help them grow. On hindsight, he should have expected the backlash.

As soon as he showed up on a screen again, for Simon Cowell’s announcement about who the new judges would be, Harry started being mobbed again, by paps and fans and the like. Consequently, he now has to deal with actual management, PR, and _showbiz _in general again.

Harry reckons that it’s a pain in the arse for him as well as for his team. He knows that he’s a fucking nightmare to work with. Never paying attention, never doing what they say, always saying everything he wants in front of a camera and pretending he’s shit at media training when in reality he just doesn’t want to follow the rules.

But his life being controlled as if he were a puppet is one of the reasons he’s sent showbiz to fuck itself two years earlier, so if now he’s being forced back into it, his team will have to deal with it just like Harry does.

“Harry, you’re not even _listening_, are you?” Liam says with a sigh.

Liam shouldn’t even be in the meeting. He’s Harry’s friend—a real one, not the fake friends he hangs out with when the paps are around—and fellow radio jockey, for the sports program scheduled right after Harry’s music one at Capital FM. He’s the one who suggested that Harry give a try to RJ-ing when he decided to stop singing, and Harry loved it, so he owes his current job to Liam Payne.

Harry had invited Liam over for lunch after both their radio shows were over, and he’d completely forgotten he had a meeting with his management until his team was swarming his living room. Harry had just told them Liam would stay for the meeting, and he could see they didn’t like it, but they also know better than to challenge Harry Styles on a bad mood. And his mood is currently _shit_, cheers.

So Liam’s there, which is nice. It’s the rest Harry loathes.

He sends Liam a fake-betrayed glance, and hums.

Liam sighs again. “Hazza, it’ll be over sooner if you just participate, yeah?” he tells Harry, gently, like he wants to pet a stray cat.

Harry chuckles. “I was paying attention. Don’t say this. Don’t say that. Don’t ramble. Don’t smile too brightly. Don’t be too sad. The usual,” he lists on his fingers. “We done?”

His whole team sighs, except for Janine, who just doodles a little on the corner of her notebook. Janine Waters, Harry’s publicist, is very young, probably barely twenty-five, and nobody wanted to hire her for _such a celebrity _as Harry Styles, so Harry hired her himself just to spite everyone. She’s good at what she does, and Harry doesn’t care that she’s young and doesn’t have any past experience in this. One has to start somewhere, he reckons. She’s also extremely kind and always tries to placate Harry, Jeff and Ant when they have a row. Which happens a lot.

Janine is worriedly eyeing Harry like she would just let him go if it depended on her, and Harry can’t find it in his heart to blame Janine for anything, so he winks at her. She smiles, sighs, and then eyes Ant—Ant Esper, Harry's new manager—sitting next to her like he will bite her head off just for that. _Not on my watch, love, don’t worry about that_, he thinks with a smirk.

Harry’s agent, Jeff, is also there. Harry likes Jeff most of the time, except when it’s blatantly obvious that they’re working and not just hanging out, because when they _are _working, he can clearly see Jeff doesn’t approve of Harry’s behaviour. “No, we’re not done, Harry,” Jeff says, pointedly not calling him ‘Hazza’ to stress the fact that Harry’s pissing him off as well.

Harry rolls his eyes. “What else? We have programmed my whole fucking life for the next _decade_, feels like, from my first appearance as an X-Factor judge next month to which questions I’m supposed to answer and which I should skate over,” he says. “What else should we talk about? Do you also wanna decide what I’ll say in my fucking radio show? ‘Cause that’s about the only fucking freedom I have right now, and I’ll be damned if you get your hands on that as well.”

Nobody replies for a moment. Janine seems a bit sad about Harry’s outburst on not being free, and he curses himself for feeling guilty about it. But he does, so he sighs, and tries to tune it down. “I’m not even doing anything at the moment, apart from hosting my radio show,” he says more quietly. “So I really don’t think there’s a need to start programming so much already.”

“Haz, that’s the problem, though,” Jeff says, also more quietly. “You’re _not _doing anything. You’re a celebrity, and you’re rarely seen anywhere.”

Gilda, his social media manager, nods. “You’re a celebrity whose social accounts have been dormant for two yeas, if we don’t count posts about your radio show. That’s not good,” she says.

Gilda has some nerve, saying that, considering that her most important mansion is to change Harry’s passwords so that he can’t use his socials when he’s in a mood. Which was all the time when his singing career was sucking him dry, so in the end Harry had just resorted to _not _use his socials anymore, not even after he went on hiatus and Gilda gave him back his own accounts.

“_Was _a celebrity,” Harry corrects raising a finger. “_Was_. Now I’m a radio jockey, and nothing more.”

“You’re _Harry Styles_,” Ant grits out. “You’ll never stop being a celebrity, not even if you decide to go live on fucking Himalaya and become a Tibetan monk. _You _decided to accept Simon Cowell’s offer without even consulting us. So now _you _deal with it, and accept the fact that you _have _to be seen.”

Harry knows Ant is right, but he doesn’t want to say it. So, instead, he grins. “That all? Wonderful!” he exclaims, pushing his chair away from the table so that he can stand up. “I’ll go out right now then, and be seen! That okay?”

Liam sighs, and gently grabs Harry by an arm, to stop him. Harry looks at him, and Liam points at his team with his head, in a gesture that clearly means _C’mon Haz, let ‘em speak_.

Harry sighs, because he probably trusts Liam more than he trusts himself. He wishes Louis was there as well. “Okay,” he says at last. “What do I have to do?”

Ant, Jeff, Gilda and Janine sigh in relief, probably happy that Liam has managed to talk some sense into Harry. “There’s a party,” Jeff says at last. “You gotta go.”

Janine clears her throat, and then speaks, looking at Harry. “What Jeff means,” she says annoyedly, “is that Radio 1 is hosting a release party for Ed Sheeran’s new album, next week, and since you two are friends_—real _friends, as you always say—we think it’d be a good occasion for you to show your face around a little bit, Harry. What do you think?”

Harry would very much like to grab Janine’s face and squeeze her chubby cheeks, because he knows she probably had a thousand rows with Jeff to make sure the party Harry _has to go to _would also be something that Harry could mildly enjoy.

Harry chuckles. “Thanks, Janine,” he says honestly. “Okay then. I’ll go. You’re going too, right?” he then asks Liam.

Liam smiles, a bit relieved himself. “Yeah, yeah, of course. It’ll be fun, you’ll see. You’ll ease back into showbiz without a care in the world.”

Harry snorts, and stands up. “Doubt that,” he replies. “Very well. Can I go back to the tiny sliver of private life I have left now?”

“Yeah,” Jeff says, clearing his throat. “Just a last thing. It’s, like, a tiny detail, really, just something we wanted to, uh, run by you.”

Harry narrows his eyes. “You’re hesitating. You never hesitate. You only hesitate when you know you’re about to say something that’ll make me _flip_.”

Janine takes a breath, but she never releases it.

Jeff clears his throat again. “We think it’d be good if you had a date for the party. Maybe Kendall? You can’t show up alone to one of the first official showbiz parties you’ve attended since you went on hiatus.”

“_What_?” Harry growls, pushing his chair away so fast it falls on the floor. He leans his hands on the table and stares at Jeff. “So not only do I_ have to go _to the party, I also _have to have a date _and you’ve already fucking decided _who _I’m gonna bring?”

Janine stutters. “Harry, it’s just…”

“No fucking way,” Harry interrupts her, not bothering to say sorry even if he should. “Kendall and I broke up ages ago, I can’t just go to her and ask her to be my _fake date _for a fucking party, are you mental? Why can’t I go alone? My friends are gonna be there! Liam, Ed, Louis! I don’t _need _a date, and even if I did, why does it have to be a woman? Maybe I wanna bring a bloke to the party! What about that?”

Ant and Jeff look utterly horrified at the idea, even though Harry came out as bi ages ago. But even if he did, he’s never actually been _seen _with a guy at an official event before, and Harry is angry, but he’s not stupid, and he recognizes a chance to piss off his management when he sees one. So he grins. “It’s settled, then!” he exclaims clapping his hands once. “I’m gonna bring a bloke to the party. And _I _decide who. Have a good fucking day,” he states, and then turns his back on them, striding for the door to his room.

“Where the _fuck _are you gonna find a bloke to bring to the party?” Ant screams after him. “You’ve been a _hermit_ for the past two years, Harry! You won’t be able to find _anyone _on your own for this, especially not a man!”

“_Watch me_!” Harry screams back, and slams his bedroom door shut.

Harry sits on his bed and drives his fingers through his hair, sighing.

They’re right, is the thing Harry won’t ever admit to their face. Finding a female date for the party on such a short notice would already be hard enough, but a _bloke_? It’s nearly impossible.

Harry has had his fair share of hook-ups when things were going brilliantly during his singing career, and he has a long list of contacts in his phone, of men he slept with and never called back. But how can he bring himself to just call any of them and ask them, out of the blue, after years, to go to a party with him as his date?

He’s sure most of them would even say yes. But Harry couldn’t stand just having a random person by his side as arm candy, only to say goodnight to them at the end of the night, never to call them back, again.

It’s not even because of the paps. He’s never cared about being seen with different people, never cared about tabloids labelling him a cheater, a ‘butterfly’, speculating about him going out with someone one night, and with someone else two days later. It’s his life, and if they want to speculate on it, they can be his fucking guests.

No, it’s just _Harry _doesn’t feel like doing it anymore. Doesn’t feel like using anyone, maybe even hurt their feelings afterwards, just because he had a row with his management team. He's not _that _Harry anymore. And a tiny part of the old Harry can't be arsed about dealing with the person later.

He’s still mulling it around in his head when there’s a knock on the door. “Come in,” he says, because he’s sure they’ve left, and it’s Liam checking up on him.

It’s Liam and Janine. Harry looks past them, about to have a fucking stroke if he ever sees his whole team invade his _bedroom_, but it’s just the two of them. “They left,” Janine says quietly, a bit embarrassedly too. “I’ll go too. I just wanted to say bye.”

Harry chuckles, and shakes his head. “You can stay. Fuck, if I had any power over it, you’d be the only member of my management team, I swear to God,” he says honestly.

Janine’s eyes light up a little at that comment, but she keeps a straight face as Liam lets her enter Harry’s bedroom first.

They both sit in the big armchair next to Harry’s desk, and Harry sighs, not saying anything.

Janine clears her throat. “I, um, I thought about some lads you could maybe call? If you need ideas?” she says hesitantly. “I know it should be Jeff’s job, but he was in… quite a mood when he left, so I told him I could take care of this.”

Harry chuckles. “I’m sure your hypothetical matches will be better than Kendall fucking Jenner, so let’s hear it. I am all ears for the start of my new love life.”

Janine chuckles too, because she can tell when Harry’s pissed and when he’s joking, which is another thing Harry likes about her, and she reads some names from her notebook. Harry grimaces and winces to tell her no, no, and no.

Janine sighs. “What about Timothée Chalamet?” she asks, almost giving Harry a coronary. “I remember you got along?”

Liam hides his grin in a cough, and Harry barks a laugh. “We fucked last year. Just for fun. Next morning he wanted to date me. I said no, and he’s been hating me with a passion ever since.”

Janine gapes. “What? I didn’t _know_!”

Harry grins. “I got better at hiding things from my own PR team, apparently.”

“Okay then, no Tim,” Janine sighs, crossing his name from her list. “Adam Lambert? There’s a bit of an… age difference there, but that was never a problem for you, I reckon,” she grins at Harry, because she might be kind and thoughtful, but she also knows how to be a little shit at Harry, which is another reason why Harry hired her.

Nonetheless, Harry scoffs. “I’d rather go to the party with an escort.”

As soon as he says it, a little seed plants itself in his mind. He knows agencies that do that, provide escorts to rich people, and he’s never bothered to actually look into it, but he knows it’s legal. And what if that’s really the solution to his problem? He could hire a good-looking, _professional _arm candy, have them both look pretty for the cameras, and if he doesn’t call the lad back, it won’t be a problem _at all_, because it’s _his job_.

“Oh, fuck,” Liam mutters. “Harry, are you fucking serious?”

Harry hasn’t spoken, but Liam knows him like the back of his hand, so of course he’s seen Harry’s train of thought like it’s written on Harry’s forehead.

Janine gasps. “No!” she squeals. “Harry, absolutely not! What the hell, Jeff will fucking kill me, there’s no way I’ll let you…”

Harry stands up, feeling a giggle rise to his mouth, and he doesn’t fight it as he pulls his laptop open. “Don’t you worry, my lovely Janine,” he declares, “I take full responsibility for this one.”

“It doesn’t _matter_!” Janine wails. “Harry, please, no! Are you actually thinking about going to the Radio 1 party with an _escort_?”

Harry is done googling the agency he remembers Nick told him about, _The Cherry On Top_. He takes his phone out, and punches in the number, dialling immediately.

“Harry, wait!” Liam groans. “This is stup…”

“Hello, _The Cherry On Top_, how can I help you?” a female voice greets Harry in the phone.

Harry grins, taking a little bit too much satisfaction in the abashed expressions he can see on Liam’s and Janine’s face. “Hello, good morning,” he says into the receiver, “I would need your fittest, cleverest male escort around thirty years old for a VIP party on Friday night.”

+

“Good morning and I hope you slept well. You’re waking up with Capital FM’s _Rambles For Breakfast_, and saying that I didn’t sleep well might be an understatement,” Harry Styles announces cheerfully in the radio.

Zayn snorts as he gets dressed in front of last night’s client’s mirror and listens to the radio with his headphones. Sometimes he wonders how they even made Harry’s little 7 a.m. wake-up show a regular in the radio schedule. Not that he complains, since now the radio is the only way to hear Harry Styles’s voice.

“For those of you who have already woken up, bright and early, and are getting into your cars to reach whatever destination your heart desires, know that traffic seems to be the usual nightmare in London centre, and a teeny tiny bit more of a nightmare on A1261 due to an accident,” Harry Styles announces. “No wounded and no major damages, though, which is nice, innit? The only time I drove myself on that highway I completely destroyed my car and my back never stopped acting up after that.”

Zayn laughs. He remembers that day, the panic he felt when the news about Harry Styles being in a bad car accident came out. Zayn felt like he couldn’t breathe properly, because at the time the only thing giving him a good reason to smile and face the day were Harry’s songs, and he honestly didn’t know what he would have done if Harry Styles was dead. Sometimes he still feels like that, but he knows he’ll never hear another song come from Harry’s mouth, so he just has the radio as his only source of Harry-Styles-ness.

“And if you’re getting ready for work,” Harry speaks again, “Whether by having breakfast, which you should always do, most important meal of the day and all, or if you’re getting dressed, struggling with your tie and a bit scared to face the day, this is _Million Reasons _by Lady GaGa, which I personally woke up to this morning.”

Lady GaGa starts to sing, and Zayn honestly thinks Harry Styles is omnipresent, sometimes. Because Zayn is indeed struggling with his tie, his fingers still asleep, and he’s not _scared _to face the day per se, but he would much rather not have to. He feels tired and sore from last night, with the client—Johnson? Preston? Carlson?—still soundly asleep on his ridiculously expensive sheets. Harry Styles always seems to know what Zayn needs, which is stupid and Zayn only thinks it because he’s had a celeb crush on him for something like five years, since he bloody won the X-Factor to which he’s now going back to be a judge in a month.

And yet, Zayn kinda misses him. Lady GaGa is always a nice way to wake up, but sometimes Zayn wishes Harry would air one of his own songs in his wake-up show. He’ll never do it, Zayn knows, because Harry has put a permanent stop to his singing career, but Zayn likes to dream.

He wonders why Harry decided to send everything to fuck itself and become an RJ.

Maybe it’s a similar reason as to why Zayn decided to send everything to fuck itself and become an escort.

Zayn is ready to leave his client’s house, so he does. The old man doesn’t wake up, but Zayn has been doing this job long enough that he doesn’t care anymore about leaving without saying goodbye. He thinks most of his clients like it best anyway, that even if they let him sleep at theirs, he’s gone in the morning. Zayn works in the shadows, like a sex Batman, and when the sun rises, so he retreats, he thinks with a snort.

He gets out of the loft where his client lives, and lights a cigarette outside the building. His head spins a little, because he hasn’t had breakfast, ignoring Harry Styles’s advice to always have breakfast, and the smoke and nicotine creeping in his lungs are _not _what his body would need, but alas, that’s what he gets until he crawls back home and can stuff his mouth with Weetabix only to then get a couple more hours of sleep.

He’s still listening to Capital FM through his phone and headphones. Harry’s show only has ten minutes left, so Zayn leans into the wall and keeps smoking, enjoying him talking about fuck all and providing good music, though not as good as his own. He wonders if Harry stopped singing even to himself, when he’s alone. It’s sad. It makes Zayn sad to think something made Harry loathe his music so much, because something definitely happened. A world-famous, bestselling singer doesn’t just put a stop to his career in the middle of a bloody tour like he did.

“I thought it would be fun to try a little game for the last five minutes of the show,” Harry says, and Zayn can imagine the grin and the dimples from how he watched all Harry’s interviews on a loop for years, and from the thousand times he wanked to the thought of Harry Styles’s mouth. “Send a text to Capital FM’s studio with a song request, and I’ll air the one sent in by the quickest among my listeners. The number is…”

Zayn is punching in the number before even actually deciding, and when he’s done, he sends the text. He absurdly feels nervous, like he’s shaking, like Harry Styles is actually gonna read his text. He scoffs to himself, staring at his own string of words. _Two Ghosts by Harry Styles. I just wanna hear it in the radio one more time, babe._

Harry chuckles in the radio. “Sorry, babe, you’ve been quick, but this song’s not gonna air ever again on my watch,” he says, and his voice is low and a bit sad, and Zayn has a heart attack, because _what if he’s talking to _me_?_ “Kaitlyn was the second fastest, and she says she wants to listen to _Animal City _by Shakira. Old but gold. There you go, Kaitlyn. This was _Rambles for Breakfast_, have a lovely rest of your day, my friends. Harry Styles out.”

Zayn sighs, and pockets his phone. _Nah, I’m sure he wasn’t talking to me_, he tells himself as he gets into his car and drives back home. He’s so tired that getting into his apartment, out of those fucking expensive clothes, and under his duvet is one long blur.

Dahlia calls him barely five minutes later, which to a better inspection are three hours later, but they only feel like minutes, Zayn swears.

He always wakes up at an ungodly hour to listen to his favourite singer _just speak_, but Zayn _chooses _that, so it’s fine. When Dahlia wakes him up to tell him about another job he has for _The Cherry On Top_, it’s never something Zayn _likes_. He values his sleep more than he, of course, values his body.

Nonetheless, the money’s good, and Zayn’s life has definitely improved. His sheets are soft Egyptian cotton, his clothes are nice, he lives in a fucking loft. All in all, he thinks having a fuckload of sugar daddies isn’t the worst job in the world, even if the sex is never satisfying and gross most of the time.

“’M asleep,” Zayn laments in the phone when he answers the call.

Dahlia hums. “Sorry, sweetie. Carson treat you well?”

_Then his name was Carson. He asked me to call him Daddy so I didn’t bother checking for his real name_. “Yeah, yeah. Brought me to dinner in a ridiculous place with fake Monets all around, and then same old same old,” he tells Dahlia. “I’ll give you my usual full report on the night, doll. But not now. ‘M too tired.”

Dahlia chuckles. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but you gotta come to the main building. There’s a gig for you on Friday, but we have to talk about _this _in person.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Why? Can’t we talk over the phone as usual? I’ll understand everything, I promise.”

“Nope,” Dahlia pops the ‘p’ like she’s _enjoying _torturing Zayn. “The client’s _very, very, very _famous. And he asked for our cleverest, fittest male escort around thirty, which means you, but he wants to meet you before making a decision. Said it’s for a VIP event. He’s here right now, said he’ll wait for you.”

Zayn grunts and sits up. “’mme speak to him.”

“What?”

“Let me speak to him,” Zayn repeats with an eye roll. “Wanna know what to expect.”

“You already know, since you have him stuck to your locker here,” Dahlia chirps, but Zayn doesn’t even understand what she means and doesn’t ask. He hears Dahlia walk for a second, open a door, and then speak to someone in a quiet tone. The person replies with a rich, warm voice.

“Hello?”

Zayn frowns. The voice sounds familiar. “Hello? This is Zayn Malik. Your selected escort for Friday night, I’m told,” he says as politely as he knows how. “I’m in a bit of a situation at the moment, so I don’t know if I’ll manage to be there any time soon, and I don’t want to keep you. Do you think we can speak over the phone? My pictures are in my agency’s folder so I’m sure you know what to expect, physically.”

_I wanna sleep. Let me sleep. Please._

The man clears his throat. “Hello, Zayn. I’m, um, my name is Harry Styles.”

Zayn chuckles. “Yeah, sure.”

The man on the other end of the call clears his throat again. “I assure you that it’s true. I know this sounds weird, but I really need to speak to you in person. I don’t know if you know who I am, but I’m VIP, not that I like it, and I need to make sure this is gonna work.”

Zayn’s heart does a painful, nauseous somersault, because when the man speaks longer, he has _no fucking doubts _it’s Harry Styles. Zayn has listened to him and his slow fucking rambles _every day of his life _for _years_, and he would recognize that accent, that voice, that tone everywhere.

He stands up so fast that he almost trips, his ankles tangling in his sheets, and then has to steady himself with a hand on the wall. “Harry Styles?” he says in his best neutral voice, while he shrieks internally.

Harry Styles chuckles. “I’m afraid so.”

Zayn nods, licks his lips, and then looks at himself in the mirror. _I look a fucking mess_, he realizes, cursing under his breath. He then clears his throat. “Very well, Mr. Styles. I’ll do my best to be there in half an hour. That okay?”

Harry Styles sighs. “Perfect. I’ll wait.”

Zayn ends the call, and then has to physically restrain himself not to smash his own head into the wall.

+

When the man the agency suggested for Harry, Zayn Malik, finally enters the room, Harry has to do his best not to gape. Because he’s seen all his pictures in the folder, and they were really good, but they somehow don’t do Zayn any fucking justice.

He’s not wearing anything fancy, just skinny jeans and a black button down, but his hair is longer than in the picture, held up in a topknot and with his sides shaved, and his eyelashes didn’t look _this _long in the pics. The jawline and cheekbones are even prettier now that Harry’s looking at him in the flesh. Harry stares at him, and briefly wonders why a guy so beautiful, just a year older than Harry himself, has decided to be an escort, and has been doing that for five years already, or so his agency’s folder says. _He’s twenty-eight, it means he started when he was twenty-three. _

Harry has half a mind to even ask him, but he bites his own tongue, because that would be so fucking rude. They haven’t even introduced themselves yet. He smiles, standing up from the armchair where the girl called Dahlia has had him sit to wait, and he walks towards Zayn with his hand stretched. “Hello. I’m Harry. Nice to meet you.”

Zayn blinks twice, and then licks his lips, looking a bit pale when he shakes Harry’s hand. “Zayn. Nice to meet you too,” he replies.

Harry frowns. “Are you feeling okay? Do you wanna sit? I’m so sorry I made your colleague call you here with such a rush,” he says sincerely, starting to feel a bit embarrassed about the whole deal. “But I have a lot of stuff to do today, so I needed to get this thing out of the way. Not that you’re a _thing_!” he amends at the last second.

Zayn blinks again, and then chuckles, shaking his head. “’S alright. I’m whatever you want me to be. Says so on my folder as well,” he replies light-heartedly, sitting on a chair. The room is littered with chairs and armchairs, and Harry didn’t really know an escort agency needed so much space for people to wait for their turn. The whole building is bigger and more organized than Harry expected.

His stomach turns a little when he sits in front of Zayn, because it feels like a business meeting, but he knows what Zayn sells is sex. Harry’s had his fair share of hook-ups, and some of them were literally just a quickie and then going back to not knowing each other, but sex has never been an actual _transaction _for Harry, like it probably is for Zayn and all the other people working in the agency.

“I’d like you to be you, cheers,” Harry replies, hoping it doesn’t sound too harsh.

Zayn smiles, and seems totally unfazed. “So. What do you wanna talk about?”

Harry hums questioningly, before his brain reminds him the reason he’s staring at such a fucking fit bloke. “Oh. Right,” he clears his throat. “Um. I have a party to attend on Friday night, and I need someone to… accompany me. Your agency recommended you after I asked for someone around thirty who would be fit and fun, and I have no fucking idea what I’m doing and how your job works, so before deciding I wanted to just talk to you, I guess.”

_Smooth. He looks so tired and you just told him you dragged him here for no reason other than talking to him just because._

Zayn smiles, and he leans a bit towards Harry, resting his elbows on his own knees. “My job works in the simplest way of all, Mr. Styles,” he replies, in a low tone. “What do you need me to be?”

Harry shakes his head. “Call me Harry, please, this is ridiculous, you’re a single year older than me, Zayn.”

Zayn chuckles. “Okay. Then what do you need me to be, _Harry_?” he asks again, stressing Harry’s name, and Harry gets a flash of a pink, pink tongue behind two rows of white teeth, and he’s starting to feel a bit hot and bothered about the fact that that mouth can probably do fucking wonders.

Harry gulps down some saliva. “I… I need you to come to that fucking party with me. That is all, really.”

Zayn nods. “Then I’ll come to the fucking party with you,” he grins. “Do you need me to come there as a friend? A boyfriend? How do you need me to behave?”

Harry doesn’t even fucking know why, but everything Zayn’s asking sounds so _sexual_, even if he’s clearly not dirty-talking, but just setting things straight for the job Harry’s hiring him for.

Harry clears his throat, hoping not to get a boner just from this and make a total fool of himself. “If we could look like, I dunno, two people who met not that long ago and have started going out, it’d be great?” he says hesitantly. “Like, for the rest, I don’t _need _you to behave in any different way from what you’d normally do. God knows my life is already too controlled by other people, I would be straight-up cruel if I ended up being the one controlling _yours_.”

Well, he didn’t exactly plan on saying that. Zayn must understand there’s a whole fucking issue there, because he doesn’t comment on that. Instead, he smiles and puts a hand on Harry’s knee. It’s warm. “It’s just a night. And it’s my job to make you happy. So if you need me to do anything else, you’ll tell me, yeah? I can see that this party is worrying you and you want it to go well.”

Harry scoffs. “I hate this. You have no idea how much. Showbiz sucks, believe me.”

Zayn’s eyes narrow a bit, like he’s sad that Harry’s saying that. If only he fucking _knew _how sad everything is. But again, it’s a question of perspective, isn’t it? Maybe Zayn also thinks his job is _sad_, Harry can’t exactly know. “Oh, right, you’re like, famous?” Zayn asks lightly. “Like, a singer, I think? Sorry, never keep up with celebrities.”

Harry laughs. It’s weirdly refreshing, to find a single soul who doesn’t care about who he is, even if he had to call a fucking escort agency for that. “Radio jockey,” he corrects Zayn, “I was a singer. Not anymore.”

Zayn hums, and nods. “Noted,” he grins. “Okay then. I’m booked with you for Friday night. Do we need to be seen arriving together?”

Harry is probably gaping a little when he replies. “How do you know the point is being seen?”

Zayn laughs. “Harry, if you had to call an escort agency to have someone _accompany _you to a party, I guess it’s fair to state that you need to be seen with _someone_. Someone being _me_,” he stresses with what looks like a suppressed giggle, for some reason. Harry doesn’t exactly mind it. Zayn looks kinda happy to do what he does, Harry thinks.

Or maybe it’s an act. Maybe this is all as fake as the very reason Harry’s there sitting in front of Zayn right now. Zayn said it at the start himself. _I’m whatever you need me to be_. Harry shouldn’t feel bummed, even if this is all an act. That’s why he called an escort in the first place.

“Arriving together would be great,” he says as business-like as he can. “I can come pick you up at seven p.m. with my driver, wherever you’ll need.”

Zayn nods. “Great. Then we’ll go to the party, it’ll go peachy, and the rest we’ll deal with afterwards,” he says, winking.

Harry feels his stomach drop and he raises his hands. “No no no!” he almost shrieks. “Like, I don’t, I don’t need the… I don’t need the _afterwards_, I swear.”

Zayn chuckles and stands up. “The fee for the night is the same anyway. Might as well get something we enjoy out of it, Harry Styles,” he declares shamelessly, giving Harry a coronary.

Harry doesn’t reply, too shocked, and Zayn looks at him for a moment, all the mirth and laughter gone from his face when he clears his throat and speaks more seriously than he’s done since he entered the room. “But of course. Whatever you need. I guess if this was only about sex, you wouldn’t have needed a professional prostitute for that.”

It breaks Harry’s heart a little, that this lad considers himself that, even if technically it’s exactly what he does for a living. Harry can’t properly explain it, but he doesn’t feel like a prostitute is all Zayn is, even if they don’t know each other, even if they never will. “Don’t call yourself that,” he can’t help but reply. “And even if. Every job has its dignity. So you’re fine, if this is what you want to do.”

Zayn looks at Harry for an unbearably long moment, and then smiles, sighing. “That’s another story entirely, innit,” he answers. “But let me tell you a secret, Harry Styles. Escorts _are _glorified prostitutes, and I say so with my deepest affection, considered that I am one. There’s nothing wrong with it, it’s just the truth. So if I wanna call myself a prostitute, I have every right to do so. Yeah?”

Harry understands what Zayn means, so he sighs and stands up, nodding. “Yeah. I didn’t mean, like, I didn’t wanna imply that being a prostitute is bad, like, if you wanna do it, as I said, it’s…”

Zayn bursts out laughing. It’s honestly overwhelming, the way he laughs with his whole face, eyes crinkling, teeth showing, his tongue peeking behind them, and Harry doesn’t even know why, but it’s contagious, and he feels his mouth twitch with a laugh of his own threatening to escape.

“Sorry, sorry,” Zayn says when he recovers. “Embarrassing clients with prostitution rights is about all the fun I have these days. Forgive me. Couldn’t resist. Hope this didn’t change your mind on your escort,” he adds, more seriously, wincing a little.

Harry is the one laughing now. This Zayn Malik is probably fucking nuts, and if he is, that’s okay. He has a sudden urge to kiss him, because he’s gonna look amazing next to Harry at the party, and maybe, _maybe_, Harry’s even gonna enjoy it. “I think I just got confirmation you’re fit for this job,” Harry says honestly.

Zayn chuckles. “Whatever you need me to be, Harry, I’m fit for it,” he declares, and then rummages through the pockets of his jeans until he retrieves a card, which he hands Harry. “I think we can skip the whole ‘going through my agent’ deal. This is my work number. Call me whenever, let me know the time for the party, if there’s anything you want me to wear, or if you think about anything I should do. Alright?”

Harry nods, dumbly he’s sure, and then he gets a card of his own from his wallet, handing it to Zayn. “This is my only number. Call me if you have any questions.”

Zayn gapes a little. “You’re giving me _your _number?”

Harry shrugs. “No agents, as you said. Also, I might not have told _my_ agent about all this yet.”

Zayn stares at Harry for a moment, and then grins. “I’ll be your dirty lil’ secret, Harry, don’t worry. I’m ace at keeping secrets. Especially if they’re dirty.”

+

As soon as Harry Styles leaves, all of Zayn’s bravado and chillness goes out of the fucking window, and he has a major freak-out.

As always happens when he has a freak-out, Zayn texts Niall. _I have a code red. No, I have a code SUPER-SUPER-SUPER-RED. Tell me you’re already home._

Niall answers immediately. _Yeah, I’m home. What happened?????_

_Coming back now. I’ll explain later. I’m not dreaming, Ni, right? I’m awake and you’re talking to me?_

_…yes, Zed, whatever it is, it’s happening. You’re making me worry._

Zayn takes a shaky breath as he gets into his car and starts the engine. _Good, cos I’m fucking terrified Ni. I’m coming home, be there in 10._

_Okay. Drive safe, nitwit._

Niall laughs so hard he almost pops a blood vessel, which is not the reaction Zayn was hoping for, but it weirdly puts him more at ease anyway, as Niall always does.

When Niall calms down, though, he listens to Zayn’s rambles about Harry Styles having just become one of his fucking clients, and he doesn’t laugh when Zayn tells him that Harry explicitly said he doesn’t _need _to have sex with Zayn.

“So this famous bloke literally just wants you to be his date for the party, and nothing more?” Niall asks with an arched eyebrow. “Sounds fishy to me.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “It’s not _fishy_, Ni. It’s… refreshing. That, like, that he doesn’t wanna treat me as a prostitute, you know. And let’s be honest, if he needed booty, he’s probably got a line outside his door. He wouldn’t need me for that. I think he just needs someone to be his fucking date and who won’t bother him again afterwards, to be honest.”

He knows he sounds a bit bummed about that, but he also knows there’s no point in hiding what he feels from Niall. Niall does indeed understand, because he sighs and pats Zayn on the shoulder. “Zayn? Can I give you a little bit of advice you won’t like?”

Zayn nods, already knowing what’s coming.

“Please don’t let your job turn your celeb crush into a _real _crush,” Niall says predictably. “You know how that goes.”

“Yeah,” Zayn sighs.

He does know. From experience. He knows, from a time in which he was young and didn’t guard his heart enough, and ended up handing it on a silver plate to _another _showbiz person, stupidly thinking that he was gonna cherish it and take Zayn away from his life of selling his body to the highest bidder, because the thought Zayn was not completely and totally his killed him.

It turned out that Ben Winston couldn’t give less fucks about that, and once Zayn’s appeal had been drained, he stopped asking for him at the agency, got himself a wife, and that was the end of Zayn’s totally fake blasting romance.

“Never again,” he tells Niall. “I know better than to think anything happening during my job is real, now. Ben took care of teaching me that.”

Niall sighs, and he wraps Zayn in a hug. “Sometimes I kinda wish you’d stop working there, you know? I know you don’t really like it. So I don’t even know why you still do that.”

Zayn chuckles. “Because I’m good at it, Ni.”

“You’re good at a thousand other things.”

“The other thousand things don’t pay nearly as well,” Zayn replies dryly. “And I don’t mind, honestly. I mean, I hate when they ask me to call ‘em ‘Daddy’ ‘cause they could _literally _be my fathers and I’ve had to indulge a couple really weird kinks, but apart from that, it’s not that bad.”

Niall grimaces. “I don’t wanna know, please,” he begs Zayn. “You threaten my fucking innocence on a daily basis with your tales, Zed, and that’s saying something, considering that I didn’t think I had any innocence left.”

Zayn laughs, feeling a bit better. Of course, when he does, he remembers just _what _happened that day, and he covers his face with his hands. “I’m gonna be Harry Styles’s escort,” he mutters. “He said I’m fit for the job.”

Niall sighs heavily. “Well, if he didn’t think you were fit, the bloke would be straight-up stupid, Zed.”

Zayn grins a little at Niall from behind his parted fingers, and he tries not to flip all over again at the thought that Harry Styles finds him _fit_.


	2. Head bowed and walk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You can be okay _enough_, Harry. Like me. Like everyone,” Zayn says, seriously.  
Harry doesn’t know if that’s part of Zayn’s act as well, and maybe he’s stupid, but he doesn’t feel like it is. So he smiles, takes a breath, and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, alright,” he replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer: I don't know or own any of the characters present in this work. I only own the plot and any eventual original character.

Thursday night comes in a blur of fittings for the clothes he’ll wear at the party (which go horribly wrong because Harry can’t be arsed to stay still, until he gets angry and declares that he doesn’t need new clothes and he’ll wear one of his thousand suits), and more meetings with his PR team about the fucking party.

Harry feels like an arsehole, but he hasn’t mustered the guts to tell Jeff and Ant about having booked an escort as a date, and he’s begged Janine not to tell them. Janine is scared shitless about Jeff’s reaction, but she’s kept her word, and all Harry’s agent and manager know is that he does have a date, and no, he won’t tell them who he is because he’s still pissed at them.

Harry also keeps running his wake-up show at the radio, and he keeps up with the little game of having people text him their requests so that he can play the fastest one.

The fastest one is always the same person, asking for _Harry’s _songs.

Harry isn’t mad. He knows that he still has fans, and he’s sorry that they miss him. But this person doesn’t look like they just miss him, they feel like they’re _really _begging him to play one of his songs, and they always text _I just wanna hear it on the radio one more time, babe_, or _just this once, babe._

Harry always makes sure they know he received the text, and he’s not gonna do it. “Not today, babe,” he’ll say, or “Nope, babe, not this one either”.

He’s been tempted to just save the number from the studio’s phone to his own, and text the person a proper apology, but he never does. He doesn’t know who the person is, and he’s never been good with apologies. Also, he can't just give out his number into the void like that. He knows how that goes.

Nonetheless, he wishes he could give the person a real reason why he suddenly decided not to be a singer anymore, but that’s Harry’s little secret, and he’s not ready to spill it. Only Liam and Louis know the truth. And probably his management, but only because they were breathing on his neck so much that they _had _to notice what was going wrong with Harry at the time. Even if none of them ever speaks about that.

For the rest, the world knows that Harry wasn’t thoroughly enjoying it, wasn’t inspired anymore, couldn’t handle the pressure of two world tours in two years, so he gave up and quit.

It’s not flattering, to know that the whole world judges him a quitter.

But it’s better than talking about real deals he wants to keep close to his heart.

Harry manages to work himself into a bit of a state that night, before forcing himself to get a grip and remember that _not stressing about this _is exactly the reason why he hired Zayn instead of just calling anyone in his contacts list.

It’s only nine p.m., so he thinks it’s safe to call Zayn and give him info and instructions for the following evening.

Zayn answers on the third ring, panting. “Zayn, ah, Malik,” he says, and keeps panting.

Harry has to sit, his traitorous dick already twitching. He falls on his couch, feeling a lot of his organs twist, because… “Hi, Zayn, this is Harry Styles. Are you… are you working?” he asks, hoping it doesn’t sound like a squeal.

Zayn pants some more, and then gasps, abruptly stopping, and Harry has a semi in his trackpants. “Work… Harry Styles, did you think I answered your call while I was _fucking_?” he asks back, a little squeal in his voice too.

Harry clears his throat. “So you’re… not?”

Zayn chuckles, and sighs. “No, Harry. I was working out. I don’t sound like that when I fuck, I’ll have you know.”

_I don’t wanna know. Not like this anyway. Nope. Not at all. This is not about fucking_, Harry tells himself before clearing his throat once more. “Oh, okay. It’s good. That you work out.”

“Can’t expect me to have the strength to ride people every other day without working out a little bit,” Zayn replies nonchalantly.

And Harry has a full boner going on already. He imagines Zayn for a moment, naked and riding someone’s dick, _Harry’s _dick, and it’s a filthy image, one that Harry can somehow picture quite well, like he’s _seeing _it right now, and he takes a couple deep breaths to stop his raging brain from doing _things_.

He’s imagined Zayn having sex almost every two hours since he met him. It’s just because Harry knows _for sure _that he does that a lot, nothing more. Nothing to do with how sexy he looked in just skinnies and a button down, nothing to do with his glorious cheekbones.

Harry is fine, he’s not having sexual fantasies about a sex worker _he _hired _not _to have sex with.

“Um, Harry? You there? It was a joke. I work out at night ‘cause it helps me sleep,” Zayn says, more seriously, but Harry can still hear the ghost of a grin in his tone.

Harry sighs. “You’re a little shit, ain’t you?”

“_I’d like you to be you, cheers_,” Zayn replies, in a spot-on impression of Harry’s voice and accent, replicating the words Harry told him when they met. “’S really only the curse you wished upon yourself, Harry, I’m afraid.”

Harry laughs, honestly. Zayn sounds like he’s fun. Is he really? Or is it just an act? The thought nags at Harry, but it’s not the moment to dwell on it, now. “I wish all curses were like this, then,” he replies with a sigh. “Anyway. I was calling you to give you more details about tomorrow night, if that’s okay?”

“Okay. I’m listening.”

Harry nods. “So, um, it’s an album release party hosted by Radio 1…”

“Oh, fuck, Ed Sheeran’s?” Zayn asks, abashed.

Harry arches an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Sick,” Zayn chuckles. “Sorry. Bit of a fan.”

Harry feels unexplainably jealous that Zayn is a fan of Ed’s. _What, did you want him to be _your _fan? Good luck with that, since you haven’t sung _shit _in the last two years. _“I see. Well, in that case, brace yourself, because you’ll be introduced to him and you’ll spend your night regretting it. He talks a lot.”

Zayn laughs. “I’m sure I will manage, if you’re there to defend me from Ed Sheeran’s rambles.”

Harry laughs too, and he realizes he’s curling one of his locks around his fingers, like a fucking schoolgirl talking to her _real _date. He rolls his eyes at himself, and immediately stops. “Anyway. So now you know what the party’s gonna be about. I was thinking that I can come pick you up at seven, like I said some days ago, but I will need an address.”

“I don’t usually give my clients my address.”

Harry nods. “I understand.”

“But,” Zayn sighs, “I really can’t be arsed to drive all the way to _The Cherry On Top _just for you to pick me up. Also, if paps follow you, it’s gonna be bad for you to be seen picking up your date in front of an escort agency building.”

Harry is honestly a bit shocked that Zayn has all of that already thought out, and Zayn probably interprets his silence in the right way, because he chuckles. “Most of my clients don’t want the rest of the world to know I’m an escort. I reckon you don’t want that to leak either. So, I’ll give you my address. Don’t share it with anyone.”

“Of course!” Harry exclaims, affronted.

“Unless they’re fitter than you. In that case, you can give it to them. But I doubt they’re real, if they’re fitter than you, so no harm no foul,” Zayn adds like he’s got a ramble of his own going, and then he giggles a bit nervously if Harry’s not mistaken, and keeps speaking without giving Harry a chance to comment on that. “I live at the corner between Sherwood Street and Brewer Street. I'll wait for you in front of the Theatre.”

Harry notes it down, his mouth quirking up a little. “You live in Piccadilly? Posh.”

Zayn scoffs. “Pot calling the kettle black. I’m sure wherever you live is a thousand times fancier.”

Harry laughs. “I dunno. Notting Hill is not _that _fancy.”

Zayn laughs too, and gracefully doesn’t comment on Harry living in one of the poshest fucking places on Earth, probably. “Maybe sometime you’ll show me how _not _fancy it is,” he says instead, his voice a bit lower and smaller.

_Is he flirting? Is he for real? Is it part of his act?_, Harry wonders, but doesn’t ask. “Maybe,” he agrees as vaguely as he can. “Okay then, time and place is settled. Now for the clothes. I’m gonna wear, um, a Gucci suit. It’s my favourite, it’s…”

“The white one with the black leaves?” Zayn asks, sounding more eager than Harry has ever heard him.

Harry gapes. “How do you even know?”

Zayn gasps and then clears his throat. “I did my research. Always do when it’s public events where I need not to embarrass myself and my client,” he replies matter-of-factly. “And let’s be honest, Harry. You’re VIP. And I’m afraid your suits are just as famous as you are.”

Harry laughs. “Fair. Anyway, yes, that one. We don’t need to match, but we can match if you want to.”

Zayn hums. “I don’t think I own anything as flashy as any of your suits, and even if I did, I don’t think any other human being can pull those suits off like you do. But I’ll wear a black Armani. That okay with you?”

Harry’s boner almost returns with a vengeance at the thought of Zayn in an Armani.

The suits are something he dearly misses from when he was always in the spotlight. “Armani is perfect,” he declares with what he’s sure is more passion than necessary, “I don’t need to hear anymore. I have a bit of a kink for a good black Armani,” he adds, because he can’t fucking help it.

Zayn gulps down, audibly. “Good to know,” he almost whispers. “Harry? I have a couple questions myself.”

Harry nods. “Yeah?”

“I, uh, I need to know if the fact I’m an escort needs to be _properly _hidden. Sometimes people can tell anyway. So if me being an escort would be a huge blow for your image, I need to know so that I can make extra sure it’ll be concealed properly. Make sure to disappear for a while if I see there are more of my clients at the same party, and all that.”

Harry feels his heart constrict a little, and when he answers, he chooses his words carefully, but honestly. “Zayn, I honestly don’t give a fuck about what people think about me anymore. You’re gonna be my date for the party. Someone recognizes you as the escort they saw once? I don’t give a fuck. They come to my face and tell me ‘the lad you’re dating is an escort’? I’m gonna answer that it’s your job and you’re good at it. They ask you what you do for a living and you feel like telling them you’re an escort? Do it. I literally don’t care.”

Zayn stays silent for a moment, in which Harry can only hear them both breathe, and then heaves a sigh. “Okay. That’s probably the nicest thing a client has ever told me,” he replies. “But no, I won’t tell them I’m an escort and I’ll make sure no one notices anyway, because you don’t wanna be in the spotlight anymore for what I know, so I won’t be the reason you’re thrown into the tabloids again, cheers. If anybody asks, I’m an architecture major. Which is not even far from the truth.”

“You study architecture?” Harry asks, trying not to sound surprised. _Why are you doing this kind of job if you’re still studying?_

Zayn chuckles. “Dropped out a long time ago. But it’s a safe bet. Nobody’s gonna ask for more details.”

As they end the call, Harry thinks that he’d like to ask Zayn for so many more details, but it’s not worth it. He’s gonna go to the party with him tomorrow, and then they’re both gonna forget about each other.

+

When Zayn sees the sleek, black car with the tinted windows pull over next to Piccadilly Theatre, he immediately knows it’s Harry even if he can’t see inside the vehicle.

Right on cue, the window rolls down just enough for Harry to be able to look at Zayn and wink, and Zayn chuckles, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray placed on top of a rubbish bin, and then crosses the street, quickly going for the backseat door and sliding inside the car, next to Harry.

“A whore,” someone grunts from the passenger seat next to the driver. “A. Fucking. Professional. Whore?”

Zayn knows who the person is, from years and years of drooling after all things Harry Styles. It’s Jeff Azoff, Harry’s agent. Zayn doesn’t speak, even though his stomach drops a little, and he just looks at Harry.

Harry doesn’t look at Zayn, but Zayn can see the fucking _anger _on his face, in the small frown on his forehead and in the way his jaw is tightly set, and in the way his hands are balled into fists on his knees. “Jeff, I swear to God, don’t fucking _say _anything like this ever again or…”

Zayn has to resort to all the years of training being an escort gave him. It’s like acting, he once told Niall, pretending to be someone else and being paid for it, only the sex scenes are real. So he gently places a hand on Harry’s still balled fist, and pretends he doesn’t give a fuck that Harry’s manager doesn’t want a _professional whore _next to Harry at the party. “Yes,” Zayn says, clearing his throat, “I am the whore. Nice to meet you, Mr. Azoff.”

Jeff Azoff turns to look at Zayn, and Harry is also looking at him now. Zayn keeps his eyes on Harry’s agent, and smiles and grins, not a care in the fucking world.

Zayn has learned a lot of things, by being an escort. He’s learned to act, yes. But he’s also learned not to show any discomfort in any situation, has learned how to control his face so that he never blushes unless he _needs _to, he’s learned not to let his hands shake and his palms sweat, he’s learned to pretend he’s chill and in control when his _real _self would be worried or even scared, and he’s learned to pretend he’s nervous and bashful when he knows his clients like to see that instead of having Zayn laugh in their face at the ridiculousness of their idea of roleplay.

So now, he grins and smiles at Jeff Azoff, and he’s sure nobody in the car can imagine that he’s bummed about Harry’s agent not wanting Zayn to be seen next to Harry, and worried that Harry’s angry about it, and a bit sad that Harry probably just told his agent now because he was ashamed of having called an escort.

“This is ridiculous,” Jeff Azoff comments with a grunt, craning his neck to look at Harry. “Of all things…”

“People, cheers,” Zayn corrects with another grin.

Jeff Azoff grunts frustratedly again. “Of all _people_,” he amends. “Was this really necessary, Haz? If anyone figures this out, it’s gonna be worse than when you thought it was a brilliant idea to go out with that group of female fans in L.A. and the press made it look like you were on your way to an orgy, in 2017!”

Zayn chuckles, a bit more earnestly, because he definitely remembers _that _rumour, and everybody was flipping, but he just thought it was ridiculous and funny and that he kinda wanted to be one of those girls. “2016,” he corrects Azoff.

Harry gasps and stares at Zayn, and Zayn finally looks at him, making sure his smile and grin are in place. “What?” Harry asks.

Zayn shrugs. “It was 2016, not 2017. November 2016, shortly after the start of your first European tour leg,” he says.

Harry gapes. “Yeah,” he nods, a bit shocked. “How do you know?”

Zayn curses himself. It’s so fucking _easy_, to let things slip with Harry. Like the night before, when Zayn mentioned the Gucci suit without Harry talking about it first, only because he already _knew _what Harry’s own favourite suit was. For some reason, though, Zayn doesn’t want to tell Harry that he’s a fan. It would be extremely awkward, not to mention completely unprofessional, and maybe, just _maybe_, Harry called a fucking escort to avoid having to deal with whatever the other person _thinks _of him.

So, Zayn lies a little. “Did my research,” he just answers, “I always do when my clients are famous and bring me out in the public eye. And you, Harry Styles, are probably my VIP-est client.”

It gets a laugh out of Harry, and a small chuckle out of Jeff Azoff as well, if Zayn’s not mistaken. It’s quickly gone, and then Azoff frowns again, still turned to look at them both. “If anyone understands, you’re _fucked_, Harry, you know that?”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t care. As long as Capital FM doesn’t cancel my show. But I think I’m fine, because if Capital FM’s director gets a hint of this, she’ll just laugh her fucking arse off and give me a raise.”

Zayn laughs at that, and then makes a show of smoothing the non-existent crinkles on his jacket. “Besides, I think I did a pretty good job at hiding my whore-ness, didn’t I? I’m wearing Armani and I studied conversation topics beforehand so I won’t embarrass my date, and all that.”

“Stop it,” Harry growls, turning a little bit more to face Zayn with a small storm in his _fucking perfect clear eyes oh Jesus Christ I’m in a car with Harry Styles_. “You’re not a whore,” Harry says harshly, “You can call yourself a prostitute if you want, you have every right to do so, we established that. But you’re not a fucking _whore_, there’s not gonna be any derogatory names for you and your job under my watch. Am I clear?”

Zayn is frankly a bit overwhelmed by Harry’s tiny speech on sex worker rights, but he manages not to smile a more earnest smile, because he guards his own smile more than he guards his body, these days. It’s not for everyone, not even for Harry Styles. “Thanks, my knight,” he answers jokingly. “But we can do derogatory language if that’s what you’re into. Just saying.”

Jeff Azoff makes a sound that means he’s probably about to have a stroke, and Harry squeals a little, his cheeks going a bit red. “Fucking hell,” he mutters, staring out the window. “No, I’m not into that, Zayn, cheers. I strangely don’t take any pleasure into being disrespectful to my partners.”

Zayn chuckles. “Okay, good,” he concedes, “Sometimes it really sucks, I won’t lie.”

Harry looks at him again, and Zayn thinks the frown on his forehead is sad now. “Do they… like, do they treat you right? Your other clients?”

Zayn chuckles again, patting Harry on the shoulder. “They don’t do anything I don’t consent to, Harry, don’t get your knickers in a twist. And at the end of every job I get, I have to compile a full report for the agency, so they make sure nothing wrong is going on. I think I’m safe.”

Harry sighs. “Oh. Okay. Good.”

Zayn lets his smile go a little bit wider when Harry turns to look out the window again, because he can’t help it. He knows Harry Styles didn’t even hire him for the sex, just to have him be his date at that party, but it’s still weirdly refreshing, that he’s kinda worried about Zayn’s safety and can’t help but ask to make sure he’s being treated right on his jobs.

Zayn gives out his best shit-eating grin, and sighs dramatically. “I’m gonna have to write that you didn’t wanna fuck me in my report, you know,” he says theatrically, testing his fucking luck so much he kinda feels nauseous with it. “Maybe they’ll think I’m not that good of an escort anymore. Maybe they’ll fire me. Maybe I’ll lose my job just because Harry Styles didn’t wanna fuck me.”

Harry gasps and turns one more time, to look at Zayn, his gaze frantically searching his eyes and face until he sighs in relief, understanding Zayn’s joking. “You’re a little shit,” Harry comments, “I think you’ve already given me a couple coronaries since we met, Zayn.”

Zayn laughs. “It’s the curse you wished upon yourself, I’m afraid.”

Harry chuckles, and the next moment Zayn’s stomach does a once-over when Harry’s hand silently snakes around his, lightly squeezing, like he needs some kind of grounding. “I wish all curses were like this, then,” Harry replies, almost in a whisper.

Nobody replies. Jeff Azoff keeps looking ahead, the driver keeps not speaking, and Zayn doesn’t honestly know what to say. He lets Harry hold his hand, and makes sure he doesn’t blush, and his palm doesn’t sweat.

+

The party is hosted by Radio 1 in a ceremony hall on the ground floor of a five-star hotel Harry can’t be arsed to remember the name of. As soon as the car comes to a halt right in front of the small path to the entrance, Harry realizes just how many paps are lined there, ready to attack.

“Zayn?” he asks, clearing his throat.

Zayn hums.

“Have you ever had to deal with paps?”

Zayn chuckles. “My clients are filthy rich, babe, but they ain’t VIP.”

Harry nods, taking a breath and speaking before Jeff can. “Okay. This is how it works. Morgan here,” he points at his driver-slash-bodyguard, “is gonna get out of the car and open my door. I’m gonna get out and you follow me. There’s another couple guards waiting for us outside. We’re gonna walk to the entrance, heads bowed—close your eyes if you want to, the flashes make you go fucking blind, I’ll guide you, I’m used to them—and we don’t speak, yeah? They’re gonna say things. Stupid, offensive, bad things, to taunt us, to make us stop and engage them. We won’t, whatever they say. Okay?”

Zayn smiles and nods. “It’s alright, Harry. It’s gonna be fine. Stop being so nervous.”

Harry sighs and doesn’t reply, wishing he was able to properly explain to Zayn just how _terrified _he is of having to deal with this side of showbiz again, and how sorry he is for throwing it in Zayn’s face, even though Zayn is technically working right now.

Harry nods at Morgan, who silently gets out of the car. Harry hears the screams of the paps increase, and the flashes already start.

Harry’s car door opens, and Harry swiftly slides out, the screams deafening. Morgan is huge, so he knows he’s safe, but it’s still a bit overwhelming, the way the paps push and pull to get a better sight, a better angle. They jostle Morgan, who easily pushes them back without any effort. Harry waits a moment until he sees the other two guards, he thinks their names are Jonathan and Kyle, and when they’re surrounding him, he stretches a hand for Zayn, who takes it surely and gets out of the car.

The paps scream even louder when they catch sight of Harry with someone.

Harry wraps an arm around Zayn’s waist, and they lower their heads, and start walking, with the three guards protecting them from being actually mobbed. It feels too close to a mobbing anyway, the way the press is screaming, the way they’re trying to get past the guards, the way a couple hands almost, _almost _grab for Harry or Zayn. Harry takes a deep breath.

“Breathe, Harry,” Zayn murmurs, too low to be heard by the paps, but enough to be heard by Harry himself.

He doesn’t answer, he can’t.

“Harry! Is this your new fling?”

“Harry, it’s been ages since you went out of your house!”

“Harry, you’ve never brought a _man _to an event!”

“Are you dating, Harry? What’s his name?”

“Where did you hide him?”

“Where did _you _hide?”

“How does it feel, not having released an album in two years, and coming to someone else’s release party?”

“Do you really just want to be an RJ?”

“Harry!”

“Harry!”

Harry closes his mouth shut so hard his teeth screech. He told Zayn not to pay them any mind, but he’s the one who wants to stop and tell them all to fuck off, now. He feels his stomach drop and churn, and how bad can it be, if he just stops and _screams _at them to leave him the fuck alone?

They’re always there, always wanting a piece of him, and Harry sometimes thinks he gave showbiz so many of his pieces that there are holes in his body and soul that he’ll never be able to fill again.

Zayn saves him from that whirl-wind of toxic thoughts. His hand tightens around Harry’s jacket, on his hip, where Zayn has also wrapped his arm, and he pulls a little, clearly meaning _You told me to bow my head and walk. So, head bowed and walk, Harry Styles_.

Harry bows his head, and walks.

Zayn gives him a tentative smile as they finally cross the threshold, the guards closing the doors, and it’s suddenly so silent. The paps can’t follow them inside, of course, and although there is gonna be a couple journalists at the party for sure, the worst is probably past.

Despite his uneasiness and ragged breath, Harry smiles back at Zayn, setting his hand on the small of Zayn’s back as he lets him go first. It’s not even for show. Harry absurdly feels more settled knowing that Zayn is there to make sure everything goes smoothly. “Sorry, it was a lot,” Harry murmurs.

Zayn shakes his head. “It was a lot more for you than for me, I think. You holding up okay?”

Harry chuckles bitterly. “How okay can I really be, is the question.”

Zayn stops for a moment, gently grabbing Harry by the chin before they get into the main room. “You can be okay _enough_, Harry. Like me. Like everyone,” he says, seriously.

Harry doesn’t know if that’s part of Zayn’s act as well, and maybe he’s stupid, but he doesn’t feel like it is. So he smiles, takes a breath, and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, alright,” he replies.

There’s a lot of people already there when they get into the actual party room, because Harry is nothing if not fashionably late, even now that he shouldn’t be considered a celebrity anymore. But he’s Harry Styles, as Ant and Jeff constantly remind him, so he’s gonna be a celebrity whether he wants it or not.

The whole room goes a bit quieter when the guests spot him, and Harry’s sure it’s not even because he showed up with a date. It’s just the fact that Harry Styles showed up, _period_.

“Oh, fuck,” Zayn whispers. “That’s Louis Tomlinson.”

Harry chuckles and sees Louis indeed there, talking to Liam and Ed. “And thank God for Louis Tomlinson,” he comments without being able to help a smile. “Come. Let’s go be with my real friends before we have to leave our backs uncovered for the hyenas.”

Zayn snorts. “So dramatic,” he retorts in a funny accent, and he pokes one of Harry’s dimples with his finger.

Harry feels his face get warm, and it’s the way Zayn is being all smiley and cute at him, because it’s endearing, but Harry shouldn’t forget that it’s an act. He asked Zayn to look like they’re just starting to date, so of course Zayn is gonna be a pro and act all affectionate with Harry.

It’s what Harry’s paying for, and nothing more.

Nonetheless, he thinks Zayn’s astonishment and embarrassment is genuine when they finally reach Harry’s friends and Harry quickly hugs the three of them before introducing Zayn. “Lads, this is Zayn. Zayn, these are Ed, Louis and Liam.”

Zayn smiles and shakes hands with them. “Hello, nice to meet you. Congratulations on your album, it’s sick, I just bought it the other day,” he says the last part looking at Ed.

Ed laughs. “Cheers, mate, appreciate that. Lots of hard work and a couple very useful tips from Hazza here.”

Harry wishes Ed didn’t say that, because he’s already on edge enough, and he doesn’t want to think about himself near music production, even if it’s not his own, at least not tonight. It’s true that he helped Ed, offered him advice on a couple lyrics and melodies, and more advice on how to structure the album and his upcoming tour, but Harry doesn’t want to think about that.

Zayn looks at Harry with a warm smile, and then nods. “Whatcha gonna do. Harry’s just that good.”

Harry chuckles, hoping it doesn’t sound too bitter, and then playfully mimics kicking Zayn in the shin, without actually doing it. Zayn laughs and does the same.

Harry realizes his friends are staring at their interaction. Among them, only Liam knows what’s really going on. Harry won’t probably tell Ed, because they’re friends but not _that _close, but he’ll definitely tell Louis after the party’s done, also because Louis is staring at Harry like he wants to burn holes in his Gucci suit, with a grin that clearly says _Where the fuck did you hide this one and why didn’t you ever mention him before?_. Harry shrugs and hopes Louis will understand his answer as _Tell you later._

“So, what do you do, Zayn? And why did Harry keep you hidden until now?” Ed asks jokingly, grabbing two drinks from a table next to them and thrusting them into Harry and Zayn’s hands.

Harry feels nauseous at the thought that he didn’t even think of elaborating a fake backstory for them. Zayn, though, is not fazed at all as he takes a sip from his drink and smiles. “Oh, I’m an architecture major. Harry wanted to renovate his place and came to my prof’s studio, and my prof gave me the job of planning a project for that,” he tells them, surely, like it’s true, like Harry himself kinda wants to believe the little lie. “I honestly couldn’t believe he was really Harry Styles when he showed up. Then I found out he’s kind of a dork, and I kinda liked him, so when he asked for my number, I gave it to him.”

“_Kinda _liked me?” Harry shrieks, and it’s not even fake. He’s always had a mildly delicate ego, and he can’t be bothered to hide it. It’s also pointless, in front of his friends. “And I believe _you _gave me your number, babe,” he adds. It’s not even a lie, if Harry thinks about it.

Zayn grins. “Were you planning on _not _asking for it, _babe_?”

Harry makes a show of rolling his eyes with a fond smile, and he can’t help wrapping an arm around Zayn’s waist, to ground himself a little. He feels like a fraud for lying to his friends like that, but it’s alright, he’ll tell Louis, just not now, now everything needs to go smoothly. “Yeah, I guess I was planning on it, after all,” he concedes.

Zayn chuckles, and he places a hand on Harry’s own resting on his hip, giving it a light squeeze. Harry chooses to interpret it as _We’re doing fine, don’t worry_.

“Riveting,” Louis comments with a grin of his own. “You look disgustingly in love and I’ll ask for more details about it, but later. Now I want more booze and a cigarette. You coming, lads?”

Ed laughs and pats Louis on his back. “You go. I don’t smoke and it would be straight-up rude if I already hid on the balcony at my own party. It’s not even nine yet! Running away and hiding is reserved for after midnight.”

Zayn snorts a laugh, and then covers his mouth with his hand, like he’s embarrassed. “Sorry,” he says, his cheeks going red. “Didn’t think you VIPs talked about yourselves like bloody Cinderellas.”

Ed barks a laugh, and pats Zayn on the shoulder too, for good measure. “Go have an actual good time. Your bloke’s fun, Haz. I’ll see you later,” he says, and with that, he’s gone.

_He’s not my bloke, not really_, Harry thinks grimly, but he doesn’t let go of Zayn’s waist, and when Louis and Liam walk straight for a door to probably a terrace or a smoking area, he doesn’t even question it, and follows them pulling Zayn with him. Zayn goes willingly, giggling and whispering “Ed Sheeran thinks I’m fun” to himself.

Harry finds himself smiling more earnestly at Zayn’s pleased expression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you're thinking :)
> 
> I am also on Tumblr as wont-you-stay-till-the-am.tumblr.com, come hit me up if you wanna talk.


	3. Hiding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zayn knows that he’s technically working, but he can’t help enjoying being there with Harry’s arm still around his waist even if nobody’s looking, talking to Louis Tomlinson and Liam Payne like it’s normal and not the most surreal fucking night he’s had in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer: I don't know or own any of the characters present in this work. I only own the plot and any eventual original character.

Harry makes quick work of saying hi to everyone he knows on the terrace for smokers where Louis Tomlinson and Liam Payne have brought them. Zayn is kinda impressed at the easy way Harry deals with everyone, leaving them a handful of seconds after saying hi without looking like he’s being rude, and generally looking like there’s no place he’d rather be when it’s clear to Zayn that Harry would rather stick his head in a hornets’ nest than be at this party.

He sadly wonders why Harry hates all of this so much. After they got mobbed by paps, Zayn understands first-hand that the glamorous side of showbiz is paid at the cost of your fucking privacy, and that must suck. But was it really so bad for Harry that he gave up his singing career for it, when Zayn knows that Harry _must _have loved singing, at some point at least?

It’s surreal for Zayn, to reach for a more secluded corner of the terrace, where the lights are faint but there’s literally no one around, and accept a cigarette from Louis fucking Tomlinson, who offers Zayn one when Zayn only makes the gesture of retrieving his own cigarettes from the inside pocket of his jacket.

Before Zayn lights the cigarette, though, he remembers Harry’s there as well, and it’s easy to just smile at him. “Babe, d’you mind?” he just asks, because it’s for the show, and because Zayn knows Harry has asthma.

Harry blinks, and his pretty mouth is shaped in a perfect ‘o’ for a moment, before he chuckles and shakes his head. “’S fine, babe, go ahead. Second-hand smoke doesn’t bother me that much. These two are always smoking in my fucking face,” he replies, pointing at Liam and Louis.

Zayn chuckles, and then realizes that if he and Harry were really dating, he should _already know _about Harry and smoke. “I never smoke when we’re alone,” he tells Louis and Liam.

Louis hums. “Yeah, ‘m sure he keeps your mouth occupied in other ways,” he replies, and it’s not unkind, just a little bit harsh.

“Lou!” Harry squeals.

Zayn does his best to laugh, feeling shards of ice grow in his stomach, but keeping them at bay.

“No, but really,” Louis says, with his eyes narrowed, “where did you pop out from? I’m sorry, but it’s like, weird, that you’re here all of a sudden when we didn’t know about you, when Harry never even fucking mentioned you.”

Zayn thinks he understands what’s in Louis’s words and eyes, but he can’t say anything, not if Harry doesn’t speak first. So he looks at Harry, and Harry looks right back at him before taking a look around, to make sure nobody is too close. Then, he sighs, and nods at Zayn.

Zayn sighs too. “I’m an escort. Harry hired me to be his date,” he says candidly.

_I’m just fucking telling Louis fucking Tomlinson that I’m a fucking escort and Harry fucking Styles is my client. You know, the usual. _

Louis gapes. “Yeah, sure.”

“Swear,” Zayn shrugs, taking a drag from his cigarette and complimenting himself for his careless tone and the fact that his hand is not shaking in the slightest, even though he’s about to have a _code SUPER-SUPER-RED _freak-out inside. “Look me up. Name’s Zayn Malik. I work for _The Cherry On Top_.”

“Fucking hell, what the…”

“Stop it, Lou,” Harry says grimly, “It’s the truth. Don’t be an arsehole about it.”

Louis opens his mouth to reply, but Zayn thinks he can spare him, just because he’s probably just a very good friend. “He’s not being an arsehole about it, Haz,” he tells Harry, “I think your friend was just worried I was some kind of social climber who came out of nowhere, brainwashed you with good dick, and was trying to use you for fame and money. Which makes him a good friend, so you should thank him.”

Harry frowns and blinks, looking at Louis, who goes unmistakably a bit red in the face, even under the scarce lights of that terrace corner. “Yeah,” Louis sighs at last. “Sorry. My problem wasn’t the job, of course. I just feel a bit protective of Harry. Especially tonight.”

Harry sighs a smile. “Cheers, Lou. But I’m fine, I swear. And, Liam knew.”

“He did?” both Zayn and Louis exclaim.

Liam laughs, scratching the back of his head. “Yeah, sorry. I was with him when he threw a strop with his whole management and called the agency.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Jesus. Not even my boyfriend tells me anything anymore. Wonderful,” he complains.

Zayn almost has a stroke, but he schools his features into neutrality as he sucks more smoke from his cigarette before giving up and asking. “You’re dating?”

Louis grins. “Yeah. I guess I can repay your honesty with a bit of my own. Don’t tell anyone though. It’s a dirty lil’ secret. Or, well, tell whomever you want. I don’t fucking care.”

Zayn grins. “I understand how you and Harry are friends then,” he declares. “And no, not gonna tell anyone. I’m ace at keeping secrets. Have to be.”

“Especially if they’re dirty,” Harry comments nonchalantly.

Zayn grins some more, winking at Harry. “Especially if they’re dirty,” he confirms.

Zayn knows that he’s technically working, but he can’t help enjoying being there with Harry’s arm still around his waist even if nobody’s looking, talking to Louis Tomlinson and Liam Payne like it’s normal and not the most surreal fucking night he’s had in his life.

He thinks Harry wouldn’t mind spending the whole party hidden in that corner, but after a while Louis and Liam convince him that he has to be seen around having fun, sooner or later, so Harry reluctantly walks with them to the middle of the terrace again, pretending—because Zayn doesn’t know him, but he knows Harry’s just pretending—to laugh and smile and enjoy himself as they go.

Louis makes a quite funny joke about them looking like the Ghostbusters for how much everybody is staring at them, and he opens his mouth to reply, but the words never come out.

Because right that moment, he sees Ben Winston smoking next to the railing, talking to a group of four people and laughing his arse off.

Zayn’s insides twist, and he tries all he can to will his discomfort and fucking _fear _away, but he doesn’t manage, not this time. Because seeing Ben opens something inside Zayn, opens the tiny little place where Zayn safely locks his heart when he’s working, and he immediately feels like he’s exposed, so much more exposed than when he’s naked in bed with wealthy strangers doing with him as they please.

“Zayn?” Harry asks, and Zayn horribly realizes he’s stopped walking, his feet feeling like ice blocks, glued to the floor.

Liam and Louis also stop, frowning a little.

Zayn can’t speak. He forces himself, almost manages, and that’s when Ben catches sight of Harry, and starts walking towards them. Zayn is sure Ben hasn’t seen him, or hasn’t recognized him yet, otherwise there was just _no way _Ben would get any closer.

He feels like he can’t breathe.

“Zayn, what’s wrong?” Harry asks.

Zayn has to tell him. It’s so fucking unprofessional, Zayn knows how to duck down and avoid being seen at parties when he runs into his other clients, and he always does so without having to tell his _current _client the real reason, but he needs to tell Harry, because this can fuck everything up for him, and Zayn has been hired to do the exact opposite of fucking things up for Harry.

“Ben Winston,” he quickly whispers to Harry, taking a step sideways so that Harry’s covering him from Ben. “Ben Winston’s coming here. I can’t see him. He was my client. For a long time. It ended badly. He’s gonna see me, Harry, he’s gonna ruin everything, if he sees me he’s gonna speak, it’ll fuck it up for you, I’m sorry, I don’t know what to do…”

Harry kisses him, in that moment.

Zayn’s not sure that it’s not only to shut his ramble up, even though Zayn was speaking so low that he’s sure nobody except Harry listened, but Harry kisses him anyway, pressing his lips to Zayn’s with a sigh, and wrapping an arm around Zayn’s waist while his other hand gently cups the side of his face, engulfing it under his big palm. _He’s hiding me_, Zayn realizes with a pang in his chest. _I told him I can’t see Ben and he’s hiding me_.

He doesn’t know if Harry’s doing it just because he doesn’t want his fucking escort to fuck things up for him, or because Zayn’s true self slipped through the cracks and Harry can see Zayn’s scared shitless about having to face Ben. Either way, Zayn takes it gratefully, and he sags a little against Harry’s front, their lips still connected and Harry’s hand still shielding his face.

When Harry interrupts their kiss, he rests his face over Zayn’s anyway, so close that their lips brush when Harry speaks. “I got you,” Harry says. “We’re gonna go to the other room, okay? You stay against my side, head bowed, and walk. I’ll guide you. Like with the paps. Okay?”

Zayn can only nod, feeling so stupid for his past fucking up his work, being worried that Harry’s never gonna forgive him for throwing a strop in front of everybody, and for bothering Harry with this kind of issues when he was supposed to be brilliant and fun and easy. That’s what Harry is paying for.

Harry doesn’t seem affected in the slightest. He moves to Zayn’s right, slinging an arm around Zayn’s shoulders and hauling him close as they start walking, and immediately he’s laughing and having a full conversation with Liam and Louis like the last two minutes never happened. “Hey, Ben,” Harry says casually in-between his ramble, not sparing him a second glance like he’s too engrossed to stop and talk to him, and Zayn sees Ben frown but then just reply with a “Hey, Harry” as he goes by.

Just like that, they’re far away from Ben Winston, in the main room of the ceremony hall again, and Zayn feels like crying.

It takes him the worst effort he’s had to do in a while, but he manages to get himself in check, excusing himself to the loo and striding towards the restroom at a pace that doesn’t look like he’s being fucking chased. He’ll say sorry to Harry for leaving him like that, later.

The men’s restroom is luckily empty, and Zayn braces himself on a sink, taking deep breaths for a while, before washing his hands and face and then looking at himself in the mirror. He smiles his best smile. “Not a care in the fucking world, Zayn,” he tells himself. “Not a single fuck given, yeah?”

The door opens, and Zayn doesn’t flinch, although he wants to. He sees that it’s Harry, and despite how bad he just fucked up, he feels slightly more centred.

“Zayn?” Harry asks, closing the door after he gets in, and looking tentative.

Zayn smiles. “I’m sorry, Harry,” he says as business-like as he knows how. “I’m sorry I fucked up. It got me a little bit unprepared. Of course, you can address the matter into the report the agency is gonna ask that you compile after my job is done, and…”

“Zayn, Zayn, Zayn,” Harry shakes his head, covering the distance between them and placing gentle, firm hands on Zayn’s shoulders. “Are you okay?” he just asks, searching for something in Zayn’s eyes.

He’s not gonna find it. Zayn had a moment. But he’s good at his job.

He smiles. “Yeah, Harry, I’m good. As I said, I’m sorry.”

“You scared the shit out of me,” Harry sighs. “Still are. I can see your smile is fake, Zayn. I learn people’s faces pretty quickly. Are you really okay?”

It stirs something in Zayn’s chest, that Harry is able to see through the small cracks Zayn can’t always keep mended. Nonetheless, Harry Styles is a client. “I’m fine. Sorry I made you worry.”

“Did Ben Winston do something to you? You said he was your client. But you looked scared.”

Zayn shakes his head. “I was just scared he’d see me and understand what I’m doing here with you. It would be bad for you.”

Harry shakes his head as well. “I don’t believe you, Zayn. I already told you it’s not a problem if anyone notices. So your reaction can’t be only because of that.”

_Fuck, why do you have to _understand_, you of all people?_, Zayn thinks defeatedly. “It’s not a problem for you, but it’s a problem for me. I don’t wanna deal with clients thinking that maybe I’m telling other people about them. NDAs are a pain in the arse, I’m sure you know,” he says, matter-of-factly. “And you may not believe me, but I have to make sure everybody else does. So I got a bit overwhelmed. I’m sorry about that.”

Harry must also understand Zayn doesn’t feel like talking about the issue anymore, because he shuts up for a moment, sighs, and then goes for a smile. “Don’t be sorry. You just made sure I didn’t have to talk to Ben Winston. And I’m always a fan of _not _talking to Ben Winston. So really, I should be thanking you.”

It gets a real laugh out of Zayn, at least. Harry laughs as well, and they stay there one more moment before Harry hums and clears his throat. “Sorry I kissed you,” he says, “I didn’t know how else I could hide you.”

Zayn grins. “I can write in my report that at least you snogged me. Maybe it’ll help me keep my job.”

Harry chuckles. “If it helps you, you can write in your report that I wanted to fuck you, but I couldn’t get it up. I literally don’t care.”

“Nah, Harry Styles,” he says, “I care about your image too much to do that.”

Harry chuckles again. “The fact that you don’t give a fuck about who I am is like a breath of fresh air, to be honest.”

They go back after that, and if Zayn feels a bit too much like a fraud, well, it’s no one’s business but his own.

+

Harry is used to keep an eye open to always be aware of who’s around him at all times. So, it’s not that difficult for him to keep up his conversations with Zayn, Louis, Liam and other people, while at the same time making sure they’re always at a safe distance from Ben Winston.

Besides, Harry tries to stay the fuck away from Ben Winston even for _himself_ as much as he can.

Ben, in his part, doesn’t seem to pay them much mind. There’s still a chance he’ll eventually take a good look at Zayn and recognize him, but Harry thinks Zayn’s fear that Ben will fuck this up is a bit unjustified.

Ben is married, has a wife who is at the party with him, Harry’s seen her around, and he highly doubts Ben is gonna admit that he used to see an escort in front of her and the paps.

It’ll be their dirty lil’ secret, as Zayn says, Harry thinks with a bitter smirk.

Zayn is lovely. He seems to be able to hold conversations about literally any topic with anybody, without looking like he knows too much, but without looking like he’s clueless about anything either. Harry is a bit ashamed to admit to himself that it doesn’t exactly feel like Zayn’s just working.

Maybe it’s Zayn’s true talent. That his clients always feel like everything they have with him is _real_.

And then, maybe, Zayn will go back home where he is a totally different person Harry will never get to know, and he’ll laugh his arse off about that pathetic ex-singer who couldn’t find a date for a party on his own, and had to call an escort agency.

Harry decides not to dwell on that.

Ed sings three or four songs from his new album, on a small stage they set up for this very purpose, while the rest of the room goes dark and a single, warm spotlight illuminates him sitting on a stool with his guitar on his lap and a mic in front of him on a stand.

Harry’s heart aches a little as he listens. He remembers a time when he didn’t love anything more than being where Ed is now, strumming his guitar and singing his songs to people. He misses it so much he feels dizzy with it, but he now knows it’s never _just that_, never _just singing_, and the things around it, the showbiz, the controlling of his life and a thousand other things he can’t think about are always there, lurking and waiting to take you and drop you in the snake pit.

Louis went through it, and he managed to be fine and keep holding onto his career, because he’s stronger than Harry.

Ed hasn’t gone through it yet, and Harry has sworn to himself that he never will, because Harry will make sure Ed’s always safe. Ed doesn’t know, like most people. But it’s okay.

Harry doesn’t want anyone except Louis and Liam to know the reason why he’s there, longing to sing, longing for a mic in front of his mouth, and loathing it at the same time.

Zayn doesn’t know either, but when Harry manages to tear his gaze from Ed and look at Zayn, he’s not looking at Ed. He’s looking at Harry, with a little frown etched to his forehead, and his eyes are a bit sparkly under the dim lights of the room, and his lips are a bit open, like he wants to speak.

He doesn’t, though. He just intertwines their fingers where their hands were resting side to side before, and the next moment he pulls at Harry’s hand a little, making him lean over, and presses their lips together.

It feels different from the kiss they exchanged on the terrace when Harry was trying to hide Zayn from Ben’s sight. Now, it feels like maybe Zayn is wondering if _Harry _is okay, and maybe he’s also understanding Harry’s not particularly fine, not tonight and not ever.

Harry gives in to the kiss, until it’s not just a press of lips anymore. Zayn sighs and opens his mouth, the hand that is not holding Harry’s carding through his hair, and Harry knows it’s probably wrong on so many levels, but he can’t manage to restrain himself, and he slips his tongue inside Zayn’s mouth. They suck at each other’s lips and tongue for a couple moments, taking advantage of the fact that they’re in almost total darkness, and only when Ed is done singing, and people start to clap, does Zayn heave a louder sigh and a groan on Harry’s mouth, like he was holding it back because it would be heard, but he can’t anymore.

Harry’s breath is short when they stop kissing, and he knows it’s work and it’s a show for Zayn, but then why can’t Harry bring himself to see the whole deal in the same light? It feels so _real_ he’s going a little crazy with it, he wants to kiss Zayn again, he wants to fuck him and ask him to be _himself_, be _Zayn_, to show Harry what he’s really like, the real things he thinks, the real way in which he acts.

He knows he can’t ask for any of those things. He can pay Zayn and ask him to fuck him in whatever position he prefers, to wear whatever he wants him to wear, but his _real _self is the only thing Zayn won’t ever give him. And that’s how it should be, because his real self is probably the only thing Zayn can keep for himself, and Harry understands that, and he won't try to rob him of that.

The lights come back, and Zayn’s eyes are still sparkling as they look at each other in the eyes, foreheads joined and lips clearly swollen by a kiss. _How does he _make _his eyes sparkle like this?_, Harry wonders.

Zayn licks his own lips and opens his mouth to say something as people slowly go back to chattering and partying, but he never says anything, because someone next to them speaks first. “Harry, why don’t you play something for us as well?”

Harry’s whole body almost collapses against Zayn’s at that request. Zayn’s eyes widen, like he knows what those words are causing Harry, and Harry takes a ragged breath before extricating himself from Zayn and facing Nick Grimshaw.

Harry knows Nick doesn’t mean any harm. He can be a bit of a shithead, and he thinks he’s extremely funny when most of the time he isn’t, but he doesn’t know the depths of the whole singing deal for Harry, so Harry is conscious that Nick isn’t asking to be mean.

He’s there, smiling, and Louis and Liam are there as well, at a bit of a loss, probably not knowing what to do to steer the conversation somewhere else.

Harry doesn’t know either. “Nah, Nick. ‘S Ed’s party. Would be rude.”

“I’m sure he would be glad!” Nick exclaims, oblivious, and Harry desperately wants to turn around and make sure nobody else is listening, because if everybody starts asking for him to sing and he’s forced to, this might be the night Harry Styles dies. “C’mon, Harry, please? I know you don’t wanna sing anymore, but it’s like, for friends! We kinda miss you singing, you know?”

Harry shakes his head. “No, Nick, really, I don’t sing anymore.”

Nick pouts. “Pretty please? How was that one I really liked? _Sweet Creature_? Just that one? I…”

“He said he doesn’t want to, mate.”

It’s Zayn who has spoken, coldly and with his back straight. He’s staring at Nick right in the eyes, not impolitely, but extremely firmly, and Harry thinks that Zayn is a couple inches shorter than him, but in that moment he looks nine feet tall, and kind of like a king cobra ready to attack. “He said he doesn’t sing anymore. So, no,” Zayn says then, taking a step forward and standing slightly in front of Harry.

Harry understands. _He’s hiding me. I hid him, and now he’s trying to hide me._

Harry can’t have that, though, so he grabs Zayn’s hand, discreetly pulling him back before there can be any altercation.

Nick blinks. “Um, who are you?”

“His boyfriend. Louisa Johnson is over there. Ask her if she wants to sing,” Zayn replies dryly, pointing somewhere towards the other side of the room, where Harry sees Louisa laughing and chatting with Olly Murs and Cher Lloyd. He remembers a time when they were all together in the X-Factor backstage, freaking out most of the time.

“Boyfriend?” Nick kinda gapes, like _that _is the issue.

Zayn smiles. “Yep. Boyfriend,” he assures. “Babe, I’m parched, wanna get something to drink?” he then asks Harry with the most innocent, nonchalant tone ever.

Harry feels an incredible fondness for Zayn in that moment. Because he never explicitly told Zayn that he didn’t want to sing, and Zayn must know anyway because he did his research on Harry, but he must have also understood his discomfort, just like Harry understood Zayn’s own discomfort when Ben was around.

So he nods, gives him a kiss on the temple, and then quickly says sorry and bye to Nick as they stride away, towards the drinks table, followed by Louis and Liam.

“That was scary,” Harry chuckles.

Zayn scoffs. “I hate Nick Grimshaw. I hate his stupid show on Radio 1 and I hate his stupid questions and rambles.”

Harry pouts. “Hey. I ramble on the radio too.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “_Rambles For Breakfast _is the best music show I’ve ever listened to and I’ll fight anyone who dares say otherwise.”

Harry’s insides dislodge a little at that, and he knows his mouth is unattractively open when he replies. “You _listened to it_?”

Zayn snaps his mouth shut. His cheeks go a bit red, just a tiny little bit, and then he averts his eyes from Harry’s. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

Harry chuckles, and he feels a bit more disappointed than he should when he thinks that Zayn probably listened to his show after Harry booked him, to have more elements on his client. “You really did your research then, didn’t you,” he murmurs, not being able to stop his hand from going to Zayn’s face and delicately stroking one of his cheekbones.

Zayn’s gaze falls a bit, and he sighs. “Yeah. I did my research,” he just says.

+

The rest of the party goes by smoothly, and Zayn takes a little bit of pride in the fact that when he says goodbye to Louis Tomlinson and Liam Payne, they look honestly a bit bummed because they know they’ll never see Zayn again. It’s bittersweet, really, because he also knows that the implication is that his time with Harry is almost over, but Zayn doesn’t dwell on that yet.

Soon enough, Zayn is with Harry in the backseat of his car, with the driver silently taking off and thankfully no Jeff Azoff ruining Harry’s mood even more, and nobody speaks as they run down the road directed to London centre again.

Harry’s staring out the window, his face in the shadows and only lighted up in orange flashes every time they go past a light-pole. Zayn thinks that he looks straight out of a fashion magazine, even with the suit all crumpled and the top buttons of his shirt undone, a hint of the tattoos Zayn has memorized showing, and his long curls tangling messily around his face.

“Do you want me to leave you at your place, or somewhere else?” Harry asks, a bit flatly, when they’re still far from both Zayn’s place and Harry’s own.

Zayn takes a second to reply. In that second, he thinks about a lot of things.

He realizes that he doesn’t want to say goodbye to Harry yet, and it’s not only because he’s Harry Styles, his celeb crush. It’s because Harry, Harry _himself_, is lovely and caring, and Zayn knows he’s still a client and none of this is real, but he can’t help thinking that he hasn’t had a client this attentive and thoughtful in a long fucking while, and it feels like he should make the most of the night before leaving him forever.

He also realizes that he, quite desperately, wants Harry to fuck him. And again, it’s not only because it’s Harry Styles. Zayn’s crush on Harry as a singer was never about his looks, not entirely at least. It’s a crush on what he says when he sings, what he’s able to awaken in Zayn’s stomach even now, two years after he sung that last note of _Kiwi _at his last show before abruptly interrupting his tour and his career.

So, in that second, Zayn takes a decision. He quickly climbs over Harry’s lap, straddling him and carding his fingers through his hair. He knows Harry trusts his driver not to tell, because they talked freely about Zayn being an escort with the driver listening to everything, so he doesn’t think it’s a problem to do this now.

“Or, we could both go to your place,” Zayn says quietly, looking at Harry in the eyes.

Harry’s hands settle on Zayn’s hips, but it’s probably only by sheer reflex, because Harry doesn’t move more, doesn’t inch closer, doesn’t do anything. He just sighs. “You don’t have to,” Harry says grimly. “You have to deal with your clients wanting to fuck you on a daily fucking basis. I can spare you at least that. I don’t need it.”

Zayn’s heart is very close to breaking, and he does his best to keep a semblance of a smirk on his lips. “But I do, Harry,” he whispers on his lips. “My clients want to fuck me on a daily basis, so please, don’t _spare me _from the only client I really, really wanna fuck too.”

It’s blatant and dirty, and maybe Harry hates it, because he grimaces a little, and Zayn thinks he’s fucked it up, crossed a line with his favourite singer, reminded him of how he’s in his car with a ‘professional whore’ as his agent said.

But when Harry speaks, Zayn understands that’s not the issue. “I’m sorry. That you have to fuck people you don’t want to fuck, sometimes. I know you chose this job. But I’m sorry anyway.”

Zayn gulps down, biting his lips with a grin not to let them quiver at what Harry just said. “Don’t worry about me, Harry Styles. I did choose it. And I’m peachy. If you don’t want to fuck, I’ll leave you alone. But if you do want to, know that I want to as well, very much so,” he replies, and it’s honest, even if Harry won’t probably ever know how much.

Harry chuckles, his hands still rested on Zayn’s hips. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. If you want. Zayn?”

Zayn only hums, because his brain is raging at the thought that _I’m about to fuck Harry Styles and I might only have a bigger crush on him now that I’ve seen just how _nice _he really is, I really shouldn’t be doing this but what the fuck am I supposed to do?_

“Can you be yourself while we do it?” Harry asks, tentatively, like he’s afraid he’s not allowed to ask. “Even if it’s just a show anyway. Can you make me believe you’re being yourself? Everything’s so fucking fake, Zayn. I hate it. And I hate myself too, sometimes.”

Zayn’s heart breaks clean in two. Because Harry’s asking for the only thing Zayn can’t give him, his _real self_, and it’s not that Zayn doesn’t want to, it’s just that he did once, and it took him months to recover after he gave Ben his _real self _only for Ben to toss him out of the window when even that had been drained of any interest. And Harry’s nice, he’s so _nice_, but Ben was nice too at first, wasn’t he? Zayn can’t risk it, he would be stupid to do that.

But he can give Harry Styles his best fucking show. That he can do.

So he kisses Harry, long and hard, slipping his tongue in Harry’s mouth and holding his face in his hands, delicately and firmly at the same time. “I can be myself, yeah, Harry,” he whispers, lies for Harry’s sake and his own, and pushes all thoughts of really letting go and _be himself _deep down, where nobody can reach for them and pull them out of his ribcage together with his heart for the whole world to see.

Harry sighs, heavily, like he was holding his breath. He kisses Zayn back, and when they come up for air, he places a hand on Zayn’s chest with another sigh. “Thanks, Zayn,” he murmurs, looking at him in the eyes. “That’s the sweetest lie anybody’s told me in a while.”

And if Zayn’s heart breaks a little again at those words, well, Harry doesn’t have to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you're thinking :)
> 
> I am also on Tumblr as wont-you-stay-till-the-am.tumblr.com, come hit me up if you wanna talk.


	4. Small truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zayn’s done this a thousand times with a thousand clients. The boyfriend fantasy. The slow night-in fantasy. The thing is that Harry didn’t ask for any of it, and Zayn feels too much like he’s indulging _himself_ right now rather than Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer: I don't know or own any of the characters present in this work. I only own the plot and any eventual original character.

Harry would be the filthiest of liars if he said that he always cares about what his hook-ups think and feel. Because it isn’t true. Harry isn’t perfect, and while it has happened that he hooked up with people he liked enough to have at his own place, shag and then do a little bit of aftercare for, there have also been people he fucked in a public bathroom stall without looking at them in the face, only to then murmur a “Cheers, babe” and then go out the door never to see them again.

When he watches Zayn set foot in his penthouse and look around the spacious hall with his mouth slightly agape while he removes his shoes, Harry realizes he doesn’t want to just be done with ‘the deed’ and then send Zayn on his way.

“Can I offer you something to eat?” Harry asks, even if it’s way past midnight. “We didn’t eat much at the party, and I’m kinda starving.”

It’s not even an excuse to have Zayn around some more before they get to _work_. Harry’s really famished. His stomach was completely closed off for the whole duration of the party, but now that he’s with Zayn in his place, where he feels safe, his stomach has loosened some, and he’s starting to feel the annoying bites of hunger in it.

Zayn chuckles. “Okay, yeah, thank God, I’m starving too,” he admits.

Harry grins, and motions for Zayn to follow him. They get to the open space that acts both as Harry’s kitchen and living room. “Gotta take this fucking suit off first,” Harry mutters, and then looks at Zayn. “Come, I’ll give you something more comfortable to wear as well.”

Zayn just nods, his mouth still hanging open as he looks around the big penthouse, and Harry chuckles a little. He knows Zayn must be rather wealthy himself, to have a loft in Piccadilly, but he gets the appeal of a penthouse, especially in a neighbourhood as posh as Notting Hill. The house has been the only thing Harry has indulged himself with after prematurely terminating his singing career.

He guides Zayn towards his bedroom, which is probably as large as the open space they were just in, now that Harry really thinks about it, and he ducks into his walk-in closet, intentioned to grab the first few comfortable enough items he finds, and get out of his suit. It’s his favourite, he loves it dearly, but it’s starting to be sticky and itchy.

Harry opens a drawer and takes two sets of sweatpants and tank tops out, setting them on a stool, and then starts shrugging the jacket off his own shoulders, but he never manages, because Zayn’s hand closes around his arm in that moment. “Wait,” Zayn just says, whispers it.

They’re almost in total darkness, because Harry couldn’t be bothered to flick on the light switch at the entrance of the walk-in closet, so the only illumination they have comes from the bedroom.

Harry hums, halting all movement.

Zayn takes a step forward. “Can I take it off you?” he asks. “Let me take it off you. This suit on you does _things _to me. I’ve been imagining getting my hands on you in this suit for a while.”

Harry chuckles, but it’s not like he can resist Zayn coming in his space and whispering to him filthy things about suits. So he nods, and Zayn sighs like he was holding his breath, and then his hands are running up Harry’s stomach, on the shirt. They’re warm as they trail up, stopping on his shoulders, under the lapels of his jacket, and then sliding further so that the jacket falls off Harry’s shoulders with a smooth swishing sound as it lands on the carpet.

Harry is a bit ashamed, but that’s all it takes to make his dick start to get hard in his trousers. “So fucking beautiful,” Zayn murmurs, and Harry kinda wishes the lighting was better so that he could see Zayn’s face, really see it.

Harry doesn’t speak as Zayn’s hands start undoing his shirt from the first still closed button, and downwards, until the shirt is open. Zayn runs his hands up Harry’s stomach again, this time on his bare skin, causing a long series of shivers and goose-bumps in their wake, until they’re on his shoulders again, repeating the same motion from earlier and making the shirt also join the jacket on the floor.

Zayn places a kiss on Harry’s collarbone then. Harry really wants to cook for Zayn first, he doesn’t want to rush this, he feels like everything he’s done today is being fake and being in a rush, but when Zayn’s lips press on his collarbone, he can’t help raising a hand to cradle the back of Zayn’s head, and keep his lips there.

There’s not enough light for Zayn to make out Harry’s tattoos, but to Harry it seems like Zayn is seeing well enough, because then his tongue runs along the edges of the swallows inked there, first the right, then the left. Harry heaves a breath, feeling his dick strain in his trousers, and he wants to will his erection away so that he can feed Zayn first, but he knows there’s no fucking way, not if Zayn keeps licking his way through Harry’s ink like he’s doing.

Zayn lowers himself a little, tracing the moth on Harry’s stomach with his tongue as well. “Zayn,” Harry murmurs, groans.

Zayn chuckles and hums, not saying anything, and then he’s kneeling in front of Harry, his hands slowly, torturously slowly undoing his trousers while his tongue runs along the laurel leaves on Harry’s hips. “My favourites,” Zayn mutters for some reason.

Harry chuckles. “You just saw them.”

Zayn shrugs. “I saw pics. Many of ‘em, believe me,” he replies, licking a fatter stripe in the middle of the leaves.

He pulls down Harry’s trousers and pants in one single motion, and Harry steps out of them with a sigh. He’s on his way to fully hard now, and he looks down at Zayn, kneeling there in a fucking Armani suit. Zayn looks up at Harry through his absurdly long eyelashes, like he wants _permission_, and that’s all Harry needs to be suddenly rock-hard.

Zayn notices, because he grins, and then, like it’s nothing, he opens his mouth and waits.

Harry’s breath hitches. “You don’t have to,” he tries to say, but his voice is gravelly and choked.

Zayn shakes his head. “But I want to. Give it to me, Harry.”

Harry has no restraint left in his body, because he’s had a long, shitty night, and because there’s a beautiful, witty, funny bloke who fucks for a living, kneeling in front of him and pretending to be himself because Harry asked for it. And the thing is that it does look real, Zayn looks like he really wants this, and Harry will never know how much it’s an act and how much it’s his job, but he can’t think about it now.

So he places a hand on the crown of Zayn’s head, and feeds his cock into Zayn’s expectant mouth.

It’s warm, wet, and tight, because Zayn lets out a fucking _sinful _groan and immediately hollows his cheeks around Harry’s dick, like he wasn’t waiting for anything else, and Harry would like to be good and wait and be gentle, but he can’t, it’s not possible, not with Zayn sucking so hard on his dick and his cheekbones looking like they’re carved into marble because of the lighting and because of how Zayn hollows his face.

So Harry thrusts into Zayn’s mouth.

Zayn doesn’t gag. He just moans, his eyelids fluttering, and sighs through his nose, hands clasped behind his back. It makes Harry feel a little mad, the thought that many, many people have seen this before him and will see it after him.

He knows how to do this. He knows how to make sex be good and mind-blowing, so much that people beg him to fuck again. He can give Zayn this, at least. Zayn said that he really wanted to fuck Harry. Harry is a client, but he can give Zayn a night of hot, good sex that he will remember for a while.

So he tightens his hand into Zayn’s hair, untying the topknot to have his hair loose and a better grasp on it, and thrusts again, the tip of his dick hitting the back of Zayn’s throat. Zayn still doesn’t gag, probably doesn’t have a gag reflex or learned to just get rid of it, but his eyelids flutter more, like he’s already enjoying it.

Harry chuckles, and slides out to the tip before going back inside, canting his hips so that he’s rolling them and not only pushing forward. Zayn opens his eyes and looks up at Harry with a glint in his eyes, like he knows exactly what Harry’s doing, and he’s loving it.

Harry chuckles again, and gives a series of deeper thrusts into Zayn’s mouth, making sure Zayn’s still breathing, and pressing his mouth tightly shut because it feels so intense and silent that he doesn’t want to ruin it with his pleasured groans, not yet.

Zayn gags, at last, when Harry’s close to coming, and he also moans on his gagging, like he’s taking pleasure from it just as much as Harry himself.

That moan is what sets Harry’s orgasm off, and he wills it to a halt so that he can quickly warn Zayn. “I’m gonna come,” he chokes out.

Zayn moans again, and doesn’t let Harry’s dick out of his mouth. So Harry thrusts one more time, and comes down Zayn’s beautiful throat, long and hard, grunting nonsense and curses.

Zayn keeps his eyes open, sucks and swirls his tongue, and then swallows every single drop without interrupting their eye contact.

Harry’s legs go lax after he comes, and he almost goes straight to the ground. It’s been ages since he came this hard. Zayn quickly stands up and steadies him with his hands on his shoulders, and a grin on that shameless mouth. “Got you already all swooning,” he comments, and his voice is all fucked up. Harry almost gets hard again at the mere thought.

He chuckles. “Yeah,” he breathes out, trying to make his lungs work properly again, and only sagging against Zayn a bit more.

He feels how hard Zayn also is in his trousers, and he thinks that _that _is real, it’s the only real_ real _thing Zayn can give him, because there’s no way to fake that. Harry reaches for the button of Zayn’s trousers, more than willing to repay him in the same way, but Zayn tuts gently and swats his hands away, playfully. “No need to, yet,” he tells Harry. “I’m really hungry. And _that _sure as hell doesn’t count as eating.”

Harry laughs. It’s more than a chuckle, and it’s honest, and Zayn also laughs more openly than he usually does. Harry waits there with him as he undresses himself quickly and changes into the sweats and tank top Harry gives him.

Zayn has got tattoos all over, Harry can see the shadows of his ink in the dim lights coming from the bedroom, and he makes a mental note to study it later. “Waffles okay? I got whipped cream too,” Harry asks as they go back to the kitchen.

Zayn hums. “Kinky,” he comments.

Harry laughs again, and kicks him in the shin. Zayn laughs too, and kicks him right back, following him to the stoves.

+

Zayn doesn’t particularly like letting people fuck his mouth, and he never suggests it first. When his clients ask for it, he obliges, of course, but it’s never happened—never in five years, not even with Ben—that Zayn has _asked _someone to fuck his mouth.

He’s happy that he did with Harry, because Harry was so fucking _good _at it that Zayn almost came untouched, with his dick still trapped in his Armani trousers, just by looking at Harry groan and moan and come.

When they’re done with that, Zayn decides that he doesn’t want Harry to reciprocate, because when he comes, he wants to be able to properly _see _Harry, and be on his bed with him, looking at him and studying every crevice of his perfect face.

So he makes a joke about really being hungry, and doesn’t let Harry anywhere near his dick.

It takes an absurdly long time to will his hard-on away, and Harry must notice because he eyes Zayn’s crotch a couple times as they make their way back to the kitchen, but it’s okay.

Harry Styles can look his fill, because never in his wildest dreams did Zayn imagine that Harry Styles could be so fucking aroused by _him_, so he can look if he likes what he sees.

Harry gestures for Zayn to take a seat at what looks like an all-purposes kitchen island, since there’s no dining table in the kitchen area of the open space. Zayn obeys, sitting on one of the leather-covered stools. The bar is made of marble and steel, and it looks squeaky clean, although there’s a bit of a mess of pens and notebooks on one side. Zayn immediately spots a notebook labelled _Rambles For Breakfasts Topics_, and his heart flutters a little in his chest when he sees another one, where _Song Lyrics_ shines, written with a silver marker on a plain, black leather cover.

His hands itch to touch that notebook. He doesn’t even wanna look inside, it’s Harry’s and it’s so fucking private, but he would like to run his fingers on the letters of the cover anyway. Of course, he doesn’t, and looks at Harry instead.

He’s foregone the tank top, and he’s currently giving Zayn his back as he hums something to himself and mixes batter for waffles in a big, green plastic bowl. Zayn feels a little too much fondness for that lanky frame with broad shoulders, because he’s watched that muscular back flex and move in videos more times than he can really admit. Harry has always been quite the nudist in all his backstage videos. Zayn has laughed at those videos, wanked to the image of Harry’s back, and smiled at the dorky things Harry got up to while getting ready for a show or to shoot a music video or whatever.

It feels quite overwhelming to have him there, for Zayn to touch, now.

He wants to ask Harry what he’s humming under his breath. If it’s a song he never released, if it’s just made up, if humming under his breath is all he does now instead of singing.

Zayn even opens his mouth to speak, but Harry’s quicker, and speaks first with a chuckle. “Zayn?”

Zayn hums.

Harry chuckles again, not turning to look at Zayn. “I asked you if you’re really a fan of Ed and Louis.”

“Oh,” Zayn laughs. “Sorry, I got a bit distracted. Anyway yeah, I really am. I’m into R&B, mostly, but I make the due exceptions.”

He can’t give Harry his true self, but these, the small truths, he can give Harry.

Harry nods, plugging a waffle maker into a power socket. “I know all of Ed’s and Louis’s songs by heart, but that’s probably just ‘cause they ran all of them by me so many times I’m traumatised.”

Zayn laughs, snorts with it, even, and it’s so out of character for him. He always laughs composedly, sultrily, quietly or sexily, that sometimes he forgets how to just _laugh_, period. He does now.

Harry snickers a little too, pouring a ladleful of batter into the waffle machine, and closing the lid. “_Oh-oh-oh oh-oh-oh oh, if it all goes wrong, oh-oh-oh oh-oh-oh oh, darling just hold on_,” Harry sings in-between his laughter, very quietly. “All the fucking time, I swear.”

It’s a song by Louis, but the mere fact that Harry’s mouth is shaping lyrics and sounds is so wild to Zayn that he has to resort to all his strength not to gape. He can’t sit still anymore, and he stands, closing the distance between him and Harry. He wraps his arms around Harry’s middle, hugging him from behind, and places his chin on Harry’s shoulder.

He’s done this a thousand times with a thousand clients. The boyfriend fantasy. The slow night-in fantasy. The thing is that Harry didn’t ask for any of it, and Zayn feels too much like he’s indulging _himself _right now rather than Harry.

He decides not to think about it.

“Gonna make me burn your midnight snack,” Harry murmurs, with no heat though.

Zayn chuckles. “You have a beautiful voice. Couldn’t resist.”

Harry doesn’t answer for a moment, and takes the first waffle out of the machine, closing it on another ladleful of batter. “Almost fucked that up forever too,” Harry says then, like he’s talking to himself. “You know I never had a vocal coach when I was singing? My producers and my whole label never cared about that, left me to fend for myself and my voice. I spent five years belting all my notes until my vocal chords were going to shit.”

Zayn feels his stomach churn. He desperately wants to ask Harry if _that’s _the reason he stopped singing, but he doesn’t, and of course he knows that can’t be it. If the problem was just his voice, he could have gotten a vocal rest and a coach, and then go back to the stage. _No, it’s something else. Something bad. Something that made him sad and his dimples almost disappear._

“Really?” he just asks Harry, as conversationally as he bloody can.

Harry nods, keeping making waffles as he speaks. He looks more at ease in his own place, alone with Zayn and cooking. “It’s like my label knew from the start I was not going to last, so they milked me for all I was worth until they could, and didn’t care about what would happen afterwards,” he chuckles bitterly.

Zayn sighs. “’M sorry. That must have felt like shit.”

Harry nods again. “But all is well what ends well, innit?” he says horribly cheerfully. “I got rid of the singing and also got rid of the dangers and hyenas in the process.”

_If you’re so happy to have gotten rid of it, then why is there a song lyrics book on your table? Do you still write? Do you miss it? I miss it. _“Whatever floats your boat, babe, I suppose,” Zayn replies carefully. “When clients are too much, or not respectful of our accords, or straight-up arseholes, I get rid of them too. So I understand the need of getting rid of a threat.”

Harry frowns. “You get rid of them?” he asks, blinking furiously and finally turning to look at Zayn, although he doesn’t get out of Zayn’s hug and Zayn doesn’t let go of him.

Zayn grins. “Yeah. I kill them. Didn’t you read the contract? I am legally allowed to kill you if you make me angry.”

Harry doesn’t answer. He only blinks some more. And Zayn laughs, hard, in his face, before deciding that _fuck it _and leaning forward to close his lips around Harry’s gaping ones.

Harry laughs too, and it’s not a real kiss, but neither of them seems to mind. “You’re a little shit,” Harry comments.

Zayn hums affirmatively.

They eat Harry’s waffles with whipped cream and Nutella. Harry mutters something about feeling guilty because it’s very unhealthy to eat that shit at that time of the night, and Zayn only replies by grinning and stuffing his own waffle with more Nutella, telling him that he fucks for a living so he’s gonna have plenty of working out to burn the calories.

Harry almost chokes on his waffle and then utters that not all people can fuck instead of working out, and Zayn grins again, telling him that with a face and body like Harry’s, he’s sure _he _could fuck instead of working out. Harry goes a bit red at that.

It’s easy, eating and joking and talking to Harry. Zayn doesn’t feel like he’s properly working, and it’s bad, it’s so fucking bad, for both of them, and that’s why he uses a couple chances to remind both Harry and himself about his job, hoping that it’ll be enough.

Nonetheless, Zayn feels the exact moment in which they stop joking and bickering, and things start to head in another direction. Because once the waffles are gone, Harry’s gaze starts to linger a bit more on Zayn, on his tattoo sleeves, on the edges of his chest piece peeking out of the tank top. And Zayn’s own gaze lingers a bit more on Harry, on the lean lines of his naked torso, on the defined abs, on the fucking laurel leaves he ran his tongue along like he’s dreamt about doing every time he wanked to the thought of Harry Styles, which admittedly is probably every time he ever wanked in the past five years, period.

Zayn feels the moment, and Harry too, he’s sure. Because they spring to their feet at the exact same time, and then they’re kissing, and it’s hard and fast and wet, Harry’s hands digging into Zayn’s hips, and Zayn climbing Harry like a tree until Harry gets the hint and hooks his hands under Zayn’s thighs, picking him up. Zayn wraps his legs around Harry’s waist, his tongue in Harry’s mouth, and they both groan, and Zayn has never been this far from acting, never been this close to himself.

He can give Harry himself when they fuck, he decides. It’s only part of his real self, and Harry won’t take advantage of it, because he won’t know that this is real.

It’ll be Zayn’s dirty lil’ secret, and he’s ace at keeping secrets. Especially if they’re dirty.

Harry sighs and groans, his biceps straining where his arms are holding Zayn up, but he doesn’t put Zayn on the floor. He starts walking towards the bedroom, and Zayn’s heart thumps a little louder and a little faster, because _this is really fucking happening, innit_.

It’s been ages since Zayn _wanted it _so much, and with a client especially. It’s because it’s Harry and he’s fit and his age, but only partly. There’s another, small part of Zayn that wants it because Harry has been nice to him, has tried not to force himself on Zayn that way before Zayn showed him that he would be welcome, has worried about other clients treating him properly and has hidden Zayn from someone without asking, just because Zayn was upset and panicking. Harry could have given zero fucks about his escort’s wellbeing. Instead, he cared.

So Zayn will give him what he wants, and he will be himself for Harry, even if Harry has to think it’s an act and it’s not real, for both their sakes.

Harry drops Zayn on his king-sized bed, very gently, looking down at him like he’s rarely seen anything more beautiful than Zayn on his ridiculously expensive dark sheets. Zayn sees Harry’s Adam’s apple bob when he gulps down, and he smiles up at him, pulling him down until Harry’s laying on top of Zayn, and they’re kissing again.

Harry’s hard in his sweatpants, and Zayn has already had that cock in his mouth, and he knows he’s massive. His mouth is watering at the thought.

Harry kisses Zayn stupid for a long, long time, before he starts to grind his hips against Zayn’s without any warning, and Zayn hisses a curse at the friction, because he’s been rock-hard for ages, maybe since when Harry was still making waffles and fucking _singing _like it was nothing.

It was nothing. Just, not to Zayn.

“How do you do it?” Harry asks, slowly, his mouth brushing Zayn’s ear as his hand snakes between them and strokes Zayn’s erection through his sweats.

Zayn chuckles, his fingers wrapping around Harry’s shoulders. “I do both. My clients don’t always ask me to bottom, I gotta say.”

Harry’s head tilts up a little at that, and when he looks at Zayn in the eyes, his green irises feel like they’re burning holes in Zayn’s stomach, and they’ve not even gotten naked yet. “But how do _you _do it?” Harry repeats. “What do _you _wanna do, Zayn? Whatever goes for me. I want you to decide.”

Zayn thinks that Harry Styles leaving him choice to top or bottom is gonna be too much, and he’s gonna shoot his load in his sweats like a teenager. In the end, he manages to control himself, and he gives Harry another piece of pure honesty. “I want you to fuck me, Harry,” he says. “I want you inside me, more than once if you’re up for it, possibly until the break of bloody dawn.”

Harry halts his movements. His hand stays on Zayn’s still clothed crotch, but he stops moving and searches Zayn’s eyes, like he honestly can’t believe Zayn would want that. Zayn has to do all he can not to roll his eyes, because honestly, who in their right mind wouldn’t fucking _want this_?

Then, Harry nods. “Okay,” he murmurs, his mouth going for Zayn’s again. “Okay, babe. Whatever you feel like doing.”

“Do _you _feel like doing this, Harry?” Zayn has to ask, because it’s really commendable that Harry wants to only do what Zayn wants, but they’re gonna have a problem if the feeling’s not mutual anyway.

Harry chuckles incredulously. “Zayn? Do you think I have a gun in my sweatpants?” he asks, with a little shit-eating grin, as he bucks his hips and makes Zayn feel just how hard he is.

Zayn laughs, groaning as well in the process, and then takes a breath. “I meant the… the _moral _parts of it. Do you still wanna do it? Knowing who I am, what I do, and that it’s just tonight?”

Harry blinks. He stares at Zayn for an awful long while, and then nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I know, and I want to.”

Zayn smiles. “Good. Then, off,” he says, tugging at Harry’s sweats.

Harry laughs, and he obliges, getting naked first, quite hastily, before taking more time to peel off his own clothes from Zayn’s body, and then Zayn’s pants as well.

They slide further up the bed, so that they’re properly in the middle of it, and Harry’s mouth doesn’t leave Zayn’s, not even when he blindly reaches for a nightstand and clutters about in a drawer, getting out lube and a condom.

At this point, Zayn would be sexy and ask his client if he wants him on his back, or on his hands and knees, or if he wants Zayn to ride him.

Now, Zayn doesn’t speak. He stays on his back where he is, looking at Harry as Harry also looks at him, while he squirts lube on his fingers, taking care of rubbing them together to warm up the liquid a little bit before crouching in between Zayn’s legs.

Harry takes Zayn in his mouth while at the same time sliding a first finger inside him, and Zayn isn’t lying when he gives out a long, sinful groan and fists the bedsheets. He always does it, makes them believe that it’s already wrecking him, but with Harry, it’s another small truth he’s giving away.

Harry slurps greedily on Zayn’s cock, makes noises that shouldn’t be legal, shouldn’t be as hot as he makes them sound, and he bobs his head up and down in earnest while he fingers Zayn with one finger, then two, and then three.

Zayn is a fucking mess already, thrums of pleasure running through his body like it hasn’t happened in a long, awfully long time. He can’t help bucking his hips, not even knowing if he’s trying to fuck up further into Harry’s mouth or rock himself back on Harry’s fingers. Probably both.

Harry lets him. He gags on Zayn’s cock, but Zayn is an expert in this, and he can see in Harry’s eyes that he’s loving it. Zayn wonders if that’s how he himself looked like when he was the one giving Harry head and fucking loving it.

The sound Harry makes when he lets Zayn’s dick slip from his mouth almost makes Zayn come. It’s obscene and dirty and filthy, and Zayn files it away in his head, for when Harry will be a wild memory, and he will be able to think _this is my celeb crush, and I fucked him, and he gave me head and made illegal sounds_. It grounds him, reminding himself that this is gonna be over in a few hours.

Harry doesn’t speak as he takes his fingers out of Zayn as well, rising on his knees and settling better between Zayn’s thighs. He rolls the condom on, panting and using more lube, and then bends over Zayn, bracing himself with one hand on the pillow next to Zayn’s head while he lines himself up with the other.

He’s shaking, and Zayn can see from his blown pupils that he’s aroused more than from how hard he is. But Harry is surprisingly gentle when he eases in, swiftly and slowly, his eyes never leaving Zayn’s face as Zayn takes it and already wants more.

“Fuck fuck yes yes yes,” Zayn groans, and again, it’s not for show. “You’re so fucking big, Harry, yes, give it to me.”

Harry shushes him, kisses him. “You don’t need to pump my ego,” he says slowly. “It’s already big enough.”

It’s a joke, and Zayn chuckles, but he also understands Harry thinks Zayn is putting on a show with that compliment. And it’s not true, and Harry might as well know. “I’m not pumping your ego. I’m stating a small truth I can give you,” Zayn says at last.

Harry bottoms out, grunts a curse, and slips his tongue in Zayn’s mouth as he tentatively rocks his hips.

Zayn opens his mouth and moans loudly, because he can and he wants to. His eyes shoot wide open, and Harry must see that he’s meaning it, because he curses again and starts really moving, not fast, but hard, their sweaty skins slapping against each other, and Zayn’s whole body rocking with the momentum.

“More, I can take more,” Zayn begs, and he feels filthy while he does, but not the bad kind of filthy.

“So tight,” Harry murmurs. Then, the hand he’s got braced on the pillow is gone, and he’s bracing himself against the headboard instead, his broad shoulders arching over Zayn as he looks down at him and thrusts harder than before.

The bed rattles, the headboard hitting the wall once, twice, three times.

Zayn has always had a thing for a good, bed-rattling, headboard-hitting-the-wall fuck.

It’s a real fantasy of his, and Harry’s acting on it without even knowing. He’ll never know. But he must understand Zayn likes it, because he feels it, when Zayn clenches more around him, and he grunts something unintelligible as he keeps pounding into Zayn, his movements becoming faster as well now.

Zayn thinks that it’s been also ages since he was on his back, technically not doing anything, and in that moment, he thanks Harry for providing that for him as well. He can’t say it out loud, so he just wraps his hands on the back of Harry’s neck to pull him down and kiss him as filthily as he knows how.

Harry moans in his mouth, losing his rhythm a little bit, but Zayn doesn’t mind, because the change of angle makes Harry hit Zayn’s prostate dead-on, and Zayn screams in Harry’s mouth. “Yes, right there, fuck, Harry, I’m gonna come, I’m sorry, I’m not gonna last, I…”

Harry kisses him again. “Don’t… ah, don’t say sorry,” he pants. “Come, Zayn. Come for me. I wanna watch it.”

Zayn nods, his nose brushing Harry’s. They’re both sweating, and their skin is damp and slippery, but to Zayn it feels like fucking heaven. “Then watch me, Harry,” Zayn murmurs, and lets go.

Harry moves to grab Zayn’s dick, but there’s no need to, because Zayn is coming before Harry can even touch him. He feels his orgasm build and overcome him in the span of a breath, in one single thrust of Harry’s, and the next moment he’s coming in between their chests, harder and longer than he probably ever has.

He whimpers and shudders with it, and he knows he clenches around Harry in a way that must be even painful, but that’s what sets Harry off as well, because then Harry’s coming too, his hips stuttering hard and making the headboard hit the wall repeatedly as he spills inside the condom and Zayn feels it inside him.

Harry collapses on top of Zayn, but not entirely. He doesn’t crush Zayn, just buries his face in Zayn’s neck, recovering his breath for a moment before gently pulling out. Zayn feels no discomfort at that, he’s so gentle with it.

Zayn feels a bit like he’s melting in the mattress, and he must also look like it, because Harry chuckles at him and takes care of getting rid of the condom, coming back with a warm, wet cloth which he uses to clean Zayn up as best as he can.

Harry looks at Zayn while he does it, like he wants to make sure Zayn is fine, and Zayn gives him his best sleazy, post-coital grin, which is not even that hard of a feat right now, he’s so fucked out.

Harry chuckles again. “Don’t fall asleep. I have a Jacuzzi,” he says.

Zayn laughs. “Of course you do.”

Harry does have a Jacuzzi. They go to the bathroom as soon as their legs seem to be working again, and Zayn thinks ‘bathroom’ might be an understatement, for that huge, tiled room with a shower, a normal bathtub _and _a Jacuzzi.

Harry gets it going, the water bubbling and warming up, and then he gently guides Zayn inside, following him.

That’s how they end up sitting in the hot, foamy water, with Harry leaning his back against the wall of the hot tub and Zayn nestled in between his legs. Both their hair are tied up in a bun, and Zayn shouldn’t be doing this.

Instead of _not _doing this, though, he sighs and rests his nape on Harry’s shoulder behind him. “Won’t your back be all fucked up from fucking and then sitting like this for a while?”

Harry hums. “How do you know my back acts up sometimes?”

Zayn’s stomach flips, but he’s not too fucked out that he’s forgotten how to hide it. “I read that you were in an accident some time ago and you hurt your back. I assumed it’s still fucked up. I broke my shoulder while playing football when I was in high school and sometimes it still acts up.”

It’s not even a lie, he thinks.

Harry hums again. “Yeah. But it’s fine. The hot water helps my back, actually. Might recover from my incredible performance from earlier very soon.”

Zayn laughs. “You better. Dawn’s still a long way.”

“Yeah,” Harry laughs too. “I have a very short refractory period too, I’ll have you know.”

Zayn sighs dramatically. “Harry Styles, the sex machine. I’d say I’m surprised, but I’m not.”

Harry doesn’t reply. Instead, he runs his hands full of foam up and down Zayn’s front, all over the skin sticking out of the water, until Zayn’s chest is lathered in soap, right where his tattoos are, as if Harry has retraced them with the foam.

“Zayn?”

Zayn hums. “Yeah, babe.”

“I wanna play a game. But if you don’t want to, it’s okay. You just tell me.”

Zayn grins. “Does it involve toys?”

He hears Harry scoff and he can _feel _his eyeroll even if they’re not looking at each other. “No,” Harry answers. “It involves speaking.”

“Boring,” Zayn pouts, but his heart constricts a little, secretly, where Harry can’t see it.

Harry doesn’t seem deterred. “You ask me a question, and I answer completely, totally honestly. And then I do the same. But not a big question. Just a small one.”

Zayn chuckles, his fingers fidgeting with Harry’s where his hands are wrapped around Zayn’s middle and entwined on Zayn’s stomach. “You want a small truth, don’t you, Harry Styles.”

Harry nods.

“Okay,” Zayn decides at last, and he wishes Harry knew how big of a leap of faith that word costs Zayn, and how much it scares him. “You ask first, though.”

“Okay,” Harry sighs. “Why did you drop out of architecture?”

Zayn takes a moment to elaborate an answer, and for a fraction of a second, he thinks about lying anyway. Harry won’t be able to tell, and he won’t pressure Zayn for more. But then he thinks about the small truths, the ones he can give Harry without putting his heart in jeopardy, and he knows that this is one of them, and he can give it out. “Because I wasn’t happy with it. I think at that point I knew I was good, my grades were perfect and all that. But it felt so pointless that I lost my will to do it. I kept going through the motions for a while, until I started failing my exams, and then I was too tight on money to keep going,” he tells Harry, but he doesn’t want to stop there, so he keeps speaking. “My friend Niall always made fun of me for the amount of old men trying to pull me at random, said I was too pretty to go out of the house. And I thought about that. I decided that getting myself a nice sugar daddy would be the solution to my money problems. The man I chose knew about _The Cherry On Top_, advised me to give it a go. I did. And I realized I was _good _at this. So I dropped out of school, and I got myself a fuckload of sugar daddies, and I never had a money problem ever again. Happily ever after.”

It’s too much, Zayn realizes when he stops speaking. He wasn’t supposed to tell Harry all of this. Harry will be disgusted by him, by the thought that Zayn doesn’t come from a past of issues and angst that tragically led him to sell his body for money. He’s not gonna like that Zayn, quite simply, decided that he liked money and it was easy to make it this way, period.

Harry, though, doesn’t go rigid around him, doesn’t push him away, doesn’t flinch. “I understand,” he just says. “But you don’t sound particularly happy ever after, babe,” he adds in a grim tone. “But again, none of us ever does, I reckon.”

“Us?”

Harry shrugs. “The people who gave up something they loved for something easier,” he specifies. “No shame in that. I’m the same, I think. Your turn. Ask away.”

Zayn’s wildest, wildest dream has always been meeting Harry Styles and asking him _Why did you stop singing? Why did you stop singing to me?_. Of course, he can’t ask that, because it’s the opposite of a small question about a small truth. He gave up more than a small truth, and he knows, but he did so willingly, his mouth made loose by the sex and the cosiness of being in Harry Styles’s really nice arms, but Harry only asked about him dropping out of school.

Zayn takes a breath, and pushes the real question away, asking for something else. “Why did you accept to be an X-Factor judge if you don’t wanna be in the music business anymore?”

Harry also takes his time to elaborate before replying. “Because I miss it,” he says with a bitter chuckle. “Because I miss singing so fucking much that sometimes I feel nauseous and dizzy with it, like I’m gonna die if I don’t get in front of a mic and sing my fucking heart out. And sometimes I wonder if I made a huge mistake, but even if I did, it was the only way to save myself, and it kills me that I had to save myself paying it at the price of my music. So I hope that going back to the X-Factor can bring me a little bit of my old happiness back, even if it’s just by nurturing new talents and helping them grow, and helping them not make the same mistakes I made and no one knows about.”

That’s also too much. Zayn’s breath is cut clean off at Harry’s pained words, at the flow of feelings he can’t seem to contain as soon as he opens his mouth, and he has half a mind to turn around and beg Harry to tell him what happened to him, who hurt him—because someone definitely did—and what they did to him.

When he does turn, Harry’s eyes are full of tears, and Zayn can’t ask about those, either, because tears are never small truths, are they?

So Zayn just smiles, and kisses Harry. “If you tell me a name,” he stage-whispers on Harry’s mouth, “I’ll go fight them for fucking with my favourite s… client.”

Zayn should go away. Because he slipped. He slipped and fucking broke his head, if he’s there so loose-mouthed and careless that he almost told Harry that he’s his favourite singer while he was joking. Zayn feels too at ease with this person, and that’s not good, that’s bad, that’s how Ben got him at first.

But while Ben realized Zayn was loose and pliant in more ways than he should have been with him, and used it for great sex and nothing more, Harry doesn’t make a single move. He just laughs, like he didn’t notice Zayn slipping or doesn’t particularly pay it any mind, like he honestly just thinks it’s funny, and Zayn finds himself staying right there, not going away, and laughing with him.

“Might have to take down my whole ex record label for that, babe,” Harry chuckles. “Not really worth it. But cheers. Also ‘cause you just pumped my ego, _again_, telling me that I became your favourite client after barely a night.”

Zayn forces himself to laugh again, and then does what he does best.

He grinds and smirks and makes Harry hard again. He brought a condom to the edge of the Jacuzzi (Harry makes a comment about Zayn being magic and making condoms appear from thin air, and it makes Zayn almost piss himself laughing), and Zayn takes it, rips it open and rolls it on Harry’s dick in the span of a breath, starting to sink on it as soon as Harry’s ready. “’Barely’ being the key word,” he breathes as he takes Harry inside him again and throws his head back. “Dawn’s still far away, Harry Styles.”

Harry groans and grabs Zayn’s hips harder. “Let it stay far away for a while longer, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you're thinking :)
> 
> I am also on Tumblr as wont-you-stay-till-the-am.tumblr.com, come hit me up if you wanna talk.


	5. Made of wax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Have you ever wondered about small truths?” Harry asks in the radio that morning, his voice quiet and slow, like he’s telling his listeners secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer: I don't know or own any of the characters present in this work. I only own the plot and any eventual original character.

Zayn sleeps over.

Harry didn’t even know how to ask him to stay, but in the end there was no need, because after maybe the fifth time they had sex in a row, they both just collapsed on top of each other and fell asleep.

When Harry wakes up, he’s glad that his show doesn’t air on Saturdays and Sundays, because it means he doesn’t have to wake Zayn up and kick him out of the house at an ungodly hour because he has to get to work.

Instead, he looks his fill at Zayn sleeping, looking soft and innocent among Harry’s sheets, his long eyelashes brushing his cheeks and his mouth slightly open, and then Harry stands up and makes breakfast.

He has Greek yoghurt and cereal, and he also makes pancakes.

While he does, he hears the noises of Zayn waking up and showering. He chuckles, kinda glad that Zayn hasn’t showed up yet, completely dressed and already on his way out.

Harry knows he’s about to leave. But he can take a shower and have breakfast first, can’t he?

When Zayn does show up, he’s just wearing the sweats Harry lent him the night before, and his hair is damp, tied up and with small droplets of water trickling down his neck. Harry kinda wants to lick them, but he doesn’t, and he plates the pancakes instead. “Good morning,” he tells Zayn. “I don’t know if you’re in a rush or not, but I made breakfast anyway.”

Zayn hums sleepily and sits at the bar, brushing his eyes with his fingertips. “My rule is that mornings don’t exist, so I can’t be in any rush. I hate rushes. And I hate mornings. And I hate waking up,” he declares, yawning.

Harry snorts. “And here I was, thinking that mornings actually existed and I had a job at the very start of them. It’s not even that early, Zayn. It’s past eleven. I have even already _finished _working at this hour during the week.”

Zayn scrunches his nose, and when Harry fills a mug with coffee, he makes grabby hands for it. Harry laughs and sets the mug right in Zayn’s hands, laughing again when Zayn cradles it to his chest like a new-born baby or something.

They eat in comfortable silence, and as soon as Harry thinks it, his head is singing _Comfortable silence is so overrated_, one of his own favourite lines. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the party, or his upcoming engagement as an X-Factor judge, or just his lately shittier than usual mood, but he feels more like singing. It carves a fucking hole in his chest.

He knows that he’s taken it to extreme lengths, _too _extreme. Like the fact that he doesn’t even sing his own songs when he’s alone anymore. He could, and nobody would know. But Harry has developed some sort of PTSD from his music, and he’s completely irrationally scared that if he opens his mouth and sings one of his own songs, even to himself, the _need_ to sing will become too much, and he’ll crawl back to the stage and crawl back into the hole he so difficultly climbed out of.

So he doesn’t sing, and doesn’t give into his anonymous fan’s plea when they text him at the radio every day if he will air one of his own songs.

“Why are you thinking?” Zayn murmurs. “’S too early to think so much. Stop thinking.”

Harry laughs. “Was I thinking out loud?”

Zayn shakes his head, and narrows his eyes at Harry over his cup of coffee. “I can _hear _all your little brain gears whirring,” he declares.

Harry laughs again. He’s probably never laughed so much with someone who’s not Louis or Liam in the past years. “I apologize for my loud brain gears, then.”

Zayn hums and nods. “Apology accepted. Only ‘cause you’re fit and cute. How can you be both? Shouldn’t be legal.”

“You’re both as well, though.”

Zayn scoffs. “Never as much as you,” he insists.

Harry thoroughly enjoys Zayn blabbering nonsense as he wakes up for real with his coffee and his pancakes. When breakfast is over, Harry opens his mouth to ask him if he wants him to call a driver for him, but he never speaks, because a phone goes off with a call.

Zayn rolls his eyes, shoving a hand in his pocket and retrieving two phones. He discards the one that is not ringing on the table, and he picks the other, where Harry can see a contact picture of a blonde, laughing lad with a big smile. “D’you mind if I take this, babe?” Zayn says nonchalantly. “’S my roommate. He worries when I’m so silent and late.”

Harry smiles and nods. “Sure, go ahead.”

He thought Zayn would get out of the room to answer the call on what is surely his personal phone and not the work one Harry also has the number of, but Zayn only sighs heavily and accepts the call staying at the bar. “’M asleep,” he announces. “Yes, Niall, I am fine. More than fine. I’m well-fucked and I’m having breakfast and it’s ten times better than the ones you make me.”

Harry feels his cheeks go absurdly warm, but he chuckles a little as Zayn grins and winks at him, listening to his friend’s reply. “Yeah, okay. I’m almost ready, just gotta get dressed,” he says then. Niall says something and Zayn rolls his eyes. “I ain’t having breakfast in my Armani suit, Niall, of course I haven’t gotten dressed yet. Okay. I’m in Notting Hill. Meet you in front of the Museum of Brands, yeah?”

Harry smiles when he realizes Zayn told his friend to pick him up there so that he wouldn’t have to tell him where Harry lives. It’s not that big of a deal, a quick Google search would tell you in quite a detail where Harry Styles’s house is, but Harry appreciates Zayn being thoughtful of that anyway.

Zayn sighs again. “Okay. Cheers. See you in twenty-ish then. No, mate, I gotta work again tonight. Okay. Bye.”

Zayn ends the call, and Harry’s stomach closes off a little bit at the last sentence. He’s abruptly reminded of why Zayn stayed with him, of what he does, and of the fact Harry certainly isn’t his only client.

“Sorry about him talking an awful lot,” Zayn says. “He’s a morning person like you. Weird motherfuckers.”

“Hey,” Harry does his best to pout. “And how do you know I’m a morning person?”

Zayn arches an eyebrow. “You have a radio show that starts at _seven _a.m., Harry. Which means you usually get up at least at six. You _have _to be a morning person, or you would be dead by now.”

Harry doesn’t ask how the fuck Zayn did all his research and remembers even tiny details about _when _Harry’s show airs, and he just chuckles, feeling a bit more than sad that Zayn’s leaving, and that tonight Harry will maybe be a good memory of good sex, while someone else is gonna be with Zayn in the flesh.

Zayn sighs, and stands up. “I should go get dressed. My friend’s picking me up shortly.”

Harry nods. “Go, go. I’ll take care of this,” he gestures to the plates on the table.

Zayn’s eyes widen. “Oh, no, shit, you fed me _twice_, I’m so fucking rude, I can help…”

Harry laughs. “Go get back into your beautiful Armani. I like doing dishes anyway. It relaxes me.”

Zayn blinks a couple of times, and then he sighs again, nodding and padding to Harry’s bedroom.

Harry resolutely doesn’t think about how at ease Zayn looks moving in his place after only spending a night in it.

When Zayn shows up again, he’s fully dressed in his suit, which looks so fucking good on him, not that Harry could ever forget that, but it’s still quite a blow, so shortly after he’s woken up. He gulps down and does his best to keep his traitorous dick at bay. Zayn smiles and goes straight for Harry, wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck, and kissing him.

Harry indulges himself in the kiss, even though he shouldn’t. He sighs and slumps against Zayn, and when Zayn opens his mouth, Harry can’t do anything but slide his tongue inside, licking at the roof of Zayn’s mouth, and cradling the back of Zayn’s head to keep him there just one more moment.

Zayn smiles, and when he interrupts the kiss, he gives Harry a last peck on his lips. “I’m not gonna forget any of this, Harry Styles,” he whispers, his lips brushing Harry’s. “And I’m honest. You were sweet and attentive and thoughtful, and I already had a feeling you were gonna be, but then you were, for real, and I’m not gonna forget it. So, remember me for a short while at least, yeah?”

Harry nods, gulping down some air. “I don’t think I’m _ever _gonna forget this either, Zayn.”

Zayn chuckles, like he doesn’t probably believe Harry, but he appreciates what he thinks is a small lie for his sake. If only he knew. “Listen, babe,” Zayn says at last. “If you need me again. To be seen with me, like, if people start speculating on where your boyfriend from the party has gone, and you don’t feel like dealing with them. Call me. Not the agency, okay? Sometimes they see I’m booked and they just tell the client no. Call me on my work number. I’ll make time.”

Harry isn’t sure what Zayn is doing is exactly ‘protocol’ or whatever the word for an escort agency is, but he finds himself nodding again. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

Zayn smiles a bit more sadly, and kisses Harry again, hard and slow. “Be okay, Harry Styles.”

“You too, Zayn Malik.”

Zayn smiles again, and then he goes, leaving Harry by the breakfast bar, in silence.

+

“Have you ever wondered about small truths?” Harry asks in the radio that morning, his voice quiet and slow, like he’s telling his listeners secrets.

Zayn chuckles, and the thought that maybe, _maybe_, after he went away from Harry’s place two days earlier, Harry sat down with his notebook and let Zayn inspire him a topic for his show, is kinda wild.

“Small truths are important. Small truths is telling a stranger that you hate mornings and you think they shouldn’t exist. Small truths is telling a stranger that you miss something so much it makes you nauseous and dizzy. Small truths, my friends, is opening up because you need to let your heart get some air, but closing again as soon as you realize someone’s gotten a glimpse of it. The small truths, as well as the small lies, are sweet and not necessary, but we indulge ourselves with them anyway. This is for the person who told me small truths. This is _Lie To Me _by 5 Seconds Of Summer.”

The song starts playing in Zayn’s headphones, and Zayn feels so many things that he has to take a series of deep, calming breaths not to cry and flip.

Harry Styles just talked about _him _on the radio, and _dedicated _a song to him when he thought Zayn wasn’t listening. Because Harry thinks all the little things he let slip were his ‘research’, and the radio show was the same thing.

Zayn smiles. Harry will never know just _how much _Zayn _listens _to him.

He enjoys the song. It’s not one of Harry’s, but it’s nice anyway. It’s extremely sad, and Zayn hasn’t ever heard it before, but as it always happens, Harry really gives sick music advice in his show, so Zayn notes down the name of the band to check it out later. And in his brain, filed into the small compartment of things about _himself _no one will know, he brands the memory of Harry Styles dedicating him a love song. Because that’s what it is, isn’t it. A love song.

Zayn chuckles.

And when Harry opens the line for the request texts, Zayn has his already typed out, and hits send at the speed of light, as usual now. _Sign Of The Times by Harry Styles. Just once, babe._

Right on cue—because by now it’s clear, that Harry receives Zayn’s texts and decides not to oblige—Harry chuckles. “Not today either, babe,” he says in the radio, and then proceeds to grant the second fastest listener’s request.

Zayn chuckles again, pocketing his personal phone, and he thinks it’s a little crazy, that Harry has _both _Zayn’s numbers and doesn’t know.

It’s how it should be. A wild memory.

_Remember me at least for a short while, Harry Styles. I’m not gonna forget any of this._

Harry said that he wouldn’t ever forget Zayn. Sometimes, Zayn wonders if it’s the truth.

+

It’s been three weeks, and Harry is still staring at Zayn’s work number in his contact list every single day.

“This bloke must have done fucking wonders in bed,” Louis comments with a sigh. “You’re pining.”

“I’m not. And it wasn’t the sex,” Harry retorts, sighing and locking his phone screen.

Louis arches an eyebrow. “So you didn’t fuck him when you got back? Because it sure looked like he _wanted _you to, at the party.”

“It’s his job to make it look like he wants it,” Harry replies, and it costs him a great effort to get those words out. They’re the truth, he knows, but there’s still a tiny part of him that looks back at that night and fully believes Zayn really wanted it just the same, for _himself_, even if he couldn’t give _himself _to Harry anyway. “But yeah, we fucked,” Harry adds reluctantly, because there’s no point in trying to hide things from Louis.

They’re sitting on the sunbeds next to Harry’s pool, under a sun umbrella, and it’s nice, just being lazy with his friend, even though Harry looks at the time on his phone and he knows he should be getting ready to leave.

X-Factor auditions start today. Harry has been anticipating and dreading the moment he’ll set foot in that building again.

Louis knows, because Louis knows everything, especially if it’s about Harry. He lights a cigarette, and then sighs, looking at Harry and removing his sunglasses. “Are you okay? I know it’s a lot, today.”

Harry nods. “I’m fine. I’m actually quite nervous, but in a good way, you know. It’s gonna be fun.”

Louis scoffs. “Spending your days around Simon Cowell. Absolutely riveting.”

Harry laughs. It’s no mystery for anyone, that Louis doesn’t particularly stand Simon Cowell, and that the feeling is kinda mutual. Of course, they’re extremely polite to each other at whatever occasion they meet, but Harry and probably the rest of the showbiz people know how to read between the lines of _Good to see you again _and _Congratulations on your last work _and _I’m glad to hear you’re doing well_.

Harry doesn’t have anything against Simon Cowell, but Simon Cowell didn’t try to put a stop to his career before it even started like he did with Louis. When Harry auditioned for the X-Factor, Simon Cowell smiled and told him “A hundred per cent yes”. When Louis did, a year later, Simon Cowell was the second “No” that didn’t let Louis through.

Louis managed to make it on his own, without the talent show, and Harry thinks that’s the thing Louis himself is most proud of. Harry wouldn’t have probably gone nearly as far, without winning the X-Factor.

But still, he can allow Louis to be bitter against Simon Cowell, even though it’s all in the past and Louis has had four years of shining singing career anyway. They’ve been four years of shining success and even more shining snake pits, but nobody knows about that. Only Harry, because he fell in the snake pit just the same, and Liam, because he was there and helped them both out.

“D’you promise you’ll be careful, Hazza?” Louis asks at last, more seriously. “That’s… that’s not a good environment, and you know.”

Harry nods. “I know. But I’m fine, Lou. I’m out of the snake pit. I paid the exit with my music. I’m not gonna let it be for nothing.”

Louis sighs. “Sometimes I still think you could get back into it if you wanted to, you know. Anybody would be mental not to take you back. Our label too. Julian was waxing poetics about how quick you were when you recorded, the other day. I swear the lad was about to cry on my shoulder and beg me to drag you back into that recording booth. Still has the mic stand with your name we carved into it that night we recorded completely drunk out of our minds.”

Harry laughs. It’s a good memory, that one. Louis is ace at reminding him of the good times among the bad. “We really were drunk, weren’t we?” he sighs. “If only people knew how drunk we were when we recorded the collab that broke the charts in the span of a day.”

Louis laughs too. “I don’t think we could have ever thought about _Summertime and butterflies all belong to your creation _if we were sober, Haz.”

Harry snorts. “_Olivia_, the drunk masterpiece. People even appreciated the background noises at the beginning and the end. They’ll never know it was literally us not knowing how to work a mixer.”

“Do you remember how _angry _our PR teams were when they realized we’d released the track by ourselves overnight? It was fucking hilarious!”

Harry’s laughing openly now, tears pooling in his eyes as he wheezes and tries to speak again. “_Harry, Louis, this can mean the end of your careers, don’t you realize it?_” he shrieks, in a perfect impression of a pissed Jeff, if he says so himself.

“And two minutes later, _BAM! _Number one in all the fucking charts!” Louis snickers. “Imagine how much more they would have flipped if they knew Liam was there too, doing the whole drum line beatboxing ‘cause we didn’t have real drums in the booth.”

“They still have got no idea, to this day?” Harry gapes.

Louis grins. “Nope. Not of that, and not of the fact that that night me and Liam snogged for the first time and have been dating ever since.”

“Sometimes I don’t even know how the fuck you two have been managing to hide from everybody for three years.”

Louis shrugs. “It takes effort and sacrifice. But it’s alright. Let it be our dirty lil’ secret a while longer, before we gotta throw our relationship to the press like it’s a bone and they’re a pack of Dobermanns.”

_I’m ace at keeping secrets. Especially if they’re dirty_.

Harry thinks about Zayn again, in that moment. He’s been thinking non-stop about him, if he’s honest, and it’s not even the sex. It’s something else. He just wishes he could see Zayn one more time, ask him to tell him another small truth, and to listen to his own small truths.

Louis must understand, because he remembers everything, so when he talks about dirty lil’ secrets, he probably knows where Harry’s mind has gone. “I kinda miss him too. He was honestly great fun,” he comments with a sigh.

Harry chuckles. “D’you want his work number?”

“Nah. But maybe _you _could use it again.”

“To what end? I don’t need a fucking escort. And he doesn’t need a pathetic ex-singer whining at him to be himself.”

Louis rolls his eyes a little. “I meant that you could call him and ask him for his _personal _number. Maybe he’ll say yes.”

The thought is so wild and absurd that Harry laughs. “Yeah, sure. Or maybe he’ll say no, he’ll tell me to go fuck myself, and he’ll laugh at how even _more _pathetic I am than he thought.”

“Don’t knock it till you try it, Haz,” Louis smiles.

Harry sighs. “Yeah, Lou. That’s what made us fall in the snake pit in the first place. And I’m done falling.”

+

Zayn is so fucking happy that the first day of the X-Factor auditions is being aired live, because it means that it’s in the afternoon and he can watch it. If it was aired at night, Zayn would have missed it, because he has a client booked from nine onwards.

As it is, the auditions air at two p.m., so Zayn is there on his couch with a bowl of ice-cream, the telly already turned on, waiting for Harry to finally show up again.

_It’s been a month since I saw him in the flesh, and he disappeared from the public eye again after that. I miss him even more._

As it happened before, the only ‘contact’ with Harry Styles Zayn has is _Rambles For Breakfast._ He’s kept sending Harry his requests, and Harry has kept ignoring them and calling him ‘babe’ nonetheless, and Zayn used to chuckle and think that was enough, but the truth is that it isn’t, and he stares at Harry’s number in his work phone almost every day, wishing Harry would call to book him again. It would be enough even if Harry just needed his escort again.

No, that’s a lie. Zayn has dreamt about Harry calling just to ask for his _private _number more than once, not that he’d ever admit it. And it scares him a little, that in those dreams, Zayn always says yes and gives him the number.

It’s dangerous, is what it is. But Zayn indulges himself with those dreams anyway, because he knows there’s no way it would ever happen. If Harry calls for an escort, that’s fine. But if Harry wanted an actual bloke to actually go out like normal people, he probably has a line outside his door, so he’d never want _Zayn _for that.

“Jesus, you’re already in pole position, ain’t you,” Niall snickers when he enters the open space and plops on the couch next to Zayn.

Zayn thinks they make quite the pair. The escort and the bloke who actually finished his studies and became an architect. They’re both quite wealthy, and they could both afford a loft on their own, but there have never been questions about it. Niall and Zayn lived together when they were both in college still, and they live together now that they live completely different lives.

Sometimes, when Niall comes back home with a project under his arm and studies it at the coffee table, Zayn peeks at it, and he misses it a little bit. The act of thinking about a house, making it brick by brick in your mind, and then elaborating a project to really make it happen. He remembers a time when he was good at it. He always shakes his head and stops looking. That’s not his life anymore.

Niall always notices that Zayn looks at his projects, and when he understands Zayn’s in a particularly good mood, he even warily asks for Zayn’s advice. He never tells Zayn that he wishes Zayn would get back into it, but Zayn knows that anyway, because sometimes he wishes the same thing.

But he can’t. He’s good at sex and pretending, _that’s _what he does, and _that’s _his real talent. Not houses, not projects. Acting and faking. It’s sad, but it is what it is.

Besides, he’s now twenty-eight. It would be so lame and pointless, going back to uni now, after having lost _five _years.

“Do you think he’ll wear the suit?” Zayn asks Niall, or maybe he’s just dreamily talking to himself. “The Gucci one he had for the party. It’s his favourite. I wanna see it one more time.”

Niall sighs heavily. “Zayn, I think the poor lad will die if he’s trapped in a suit for such a long time. Don’t wish this shitty premature death upon your celeb crush.”

Zayn laughs. “But it looks so fucking _good _on him. You have no idea how good he looked at the party. The cameras don’t do him any fucking justice, Ni.”

Niall snorts. “Zed? Can I tell you something you won’t like?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re pining.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Niall, I’ve been pining for Harry Styles for five years now.”

“Nope. I mean you’re pining for _him_, for _real_. Since the party. You haven’t talked about his music and how desperately you want him to sing again, not even once. Instead, you always talk about how good he looked at the party, how nice he was at the party, how attentive he was when you fucked after the party, the party the party the party,” Niall says more seriously. “You’re pining for the real person, and that’s probably a tiny bit dangerous waters, mate.”

Zayn doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have an answer, because he knows Niall’s totally right. He’s spared anyway, because right that moment, the X-Factor auditions start.

It’s very dramatic and theatrical, when the judges start to arrive. There are shots of cars arriving, with flashes like they’re being papped—as if Harry needed _more _paps, the poor bloke—and freeze frames of them while they open their car doors to get out.

Simon Cowell is the first. Then, there’s Nick Grimshaw (Zayn sneers at him). The third is Rita Ora, who is actually a really nice bird even though she looks like she’s always judging you (Zayn knows for sure because Harry introduced him to her and she was super fun).

And then, there’s Harry.

He gets out of the car and smiles brightly, greeting the fans lined outside the building, and Zayn sighs, wondering if he’s really smiling or if he was having a freak-out about all this and he’s now pretending he doesn’t have a care in the fucking world. He’s not wearing any suit, but Zayn can’t find it in his heart to complain, because his skinnies are tight and his hair is loose, and his top is a sheer shirt, one of those he used to wear at the beginning of his singing career, a dark green with tropical fruits printed all over, and open till the middle of his pecs.

It almost gives Zayn a boner, to know that he’s touched those pecs, licked them, scratched them, bitten at those nipples and come all over them.

“Fuck he looks good,” Zayn sighs, and he doesn’t say that he kinda wishes Harry would remove his sunglasses so that Zayn could take a peek at his eyes and try to see how he’s really doing.

Niall snorts a laugh. “Zed? Do you, like, want me to leave you alone with the telly for a while?”

Zayn hums questioningly before realizing that he has a quite evident tent in his sweats, and he feels his face heating up. He kicks at Niall who only barks a laugh. “Shut up, Niall. He’s a lot. It’s not my fault that I look at him and I remember how good he dicked me.”

Niall hums. “I can see the appeal. If Rita Ora fucked me, I’m sure I would never forget it either,” he sighs dreamily, staring at Rita Ora climbing the stairs of the building.

Zayn chuckles, but he doesn’t say that he’s not only thinking about Harry fucking him, not entirely.

+

The first day of auditions starts well and goes well, which Harry’s glad about. He wishes Simon would be less of a dick to people who can’t really sing and give it a try anyway, so Harry tries to balance Simon’s rudeness with more polite comments before he drops his “No” on those poor people’s heads, but he also has to admit that some contestants are crazy bad, like, _crazy bad_, and there are a couple auditions that almost make him piss himself laughing.

Most of the time it’s Rita’s fault, because she’s got an easy, contagious laugh, and she knows Harry’s weak to contagious laughing, so she always looks straight at him from the other side of the judges’ table before bursting.

Harry realizes he’s _enjoying _this, when they have a coffee break. He thought it would be hard and unbearable, to get back into this side of music business, but instead, he’s already loving it.

Granted, they’re not at the live shows yet, and people aren’t really singing on a stage, but just in a room in front of him. He doesn’t know how things will fare in his heart and mind when he’ll be so close to a stage, at the _wrong _end of it (because it’s the wrong end of it, he should be _on _the stage, and he can’t say it, but he _knows_).

He thinks about Zayn when he’s left alone with the makeup artist. He doesn’t know if Zayn likes the X-Factor, if he’s gonna watch it, if he’s gonna think about that night with Harry a month ago. Maybe he already forgot. Maybe he doesn’t care that much to fish the memory from his brain again.

Harry, though, remembers. And he remembers that his phone has Zayn’s work number saved. He wishes he could call him.

It turns out you should be careful what you wish for, because after his makeup’s done, and he joins Simon, Nick and Rita at the judges’ table again, Simon drops a nasty blow on Harry’s neck without even realizing. “So, I organized an impromptu celebration for the start of the show, tonight,” he tells them. “It’s here in the building, in the reception hall. Not anything fancy, though I know that’s not gonna be possible for some people,” he adds, winking at Harry. “And Harry, of course, bring your boyfriend if you want. We haven’t seen much of you since Ed’s release party, but he’s welcome to come if you want him to.”

Harry thinks that he’s really fucking good at media training, because he’s sure none of them realizes how fucking much he’s feeling like _dying _right now. He smiles, and nods. “Yeah, cheers. Do I have time to give him a quick ring now before we start again? I think he said he had something planned so the sooner I tell him, the easier it’ll be for him to reschedule whatever it is?”

Simon nods easily. “Yeah, go ahead. We start in twenty.”

Harry flies out of his seat, striding for his dressing room and hoping he doesn’t look like someone’s chasing him. He closes the door, locks it, and braces himself on a table, taking deep, agitated breaths. “What the fuck do I do, what the fuck…” he mutters to himself.

And well, there’s nothing much he _can _do, is there?

_Jeff will fucking kill me_, Harry thinks, and gets his phone out from his pocket, scrolling his contacts. His eyes fall on the number he saved as _Texter at the radio_, the person who always requests Harry’s songs. Harry doesn’t even know why he saved their number, it’s not like he’s ever gonna text or call them. It just felt like he had to, for some reason.

He keeps scrolling to the letter Z, and then dials the number he’s been staring at every day for three weeks.

+

Zayn’s spoonful of ice-cream is halfway to his mouth when his work phone rings, and he distractedly looks at the caller ID.

Then, the spoon flies from his hand, and he almost chokes, making Niall gasp in surprise. “Yo, mate, you good?” Niall asks, patting him on the back.

Zayn picks up the phone, showing it to Niall while it keeps ringing. “What do you read? Am I going crazy?”

Niall sighs and rolls his eyes. “It says _Harry Styles_, yes.”

“Oh, fuck,” Zayn mutters. “I’m literally _watching him _and he calls me during a fucking break at the fucking X-Factor?”

Then, he takes a breath and answers the call. “Zayn Malik,” he says neutrally.

The clearing of throat on the other end has become more familiar to Zayn than he cares to admit. “Uh, hi, Zayn. This is Harry Styles. I don’t know if you, like, remember me.”

Zayn has to hold back a snort. “I do remember you, Harry Styles. Nice to hear from you again,” he replies, without telling him just _how fucking much_.

“Same,” Harry says clearing his throat again. “Um, listen, I have, like, a situation. And I know it’s not much of a heads up, so if you’re not free it’s totally okay, but like, you told me to call you and not your agency, so I’m calling.”

Zayn’s stomach drops. “I’m listening.”

“There’s a party at the X-Factor. I don’t really wanna go but I have to. And, um, fucking Simon Cowell told me to bring my boyfriend, and I’m kinda freaking out about this, and I dunno, as I said, you don’t have to…”

“When?” Zayn asks, calmly. _He needs an escort. It’s another job, another client. Get a fucking grip_, he tells himself as coldly as he can.

“Tonight.”

“_Tonight?_” Zayn hisses.

Harry makes a weird sound on the other end. “Yeah. I’m sorry I didn’t call you sooner, I didn’t know. It’s okay if you can’t, like, I already told them I thought you had something already planned, and…”

Zayn always has to think quickly, with his job. There’s no time to have long internal monologues about stuff when you’re in bed with someone who asks you to do this and that.

So, Zayn thinks quickly. He knows he has a client booked for that night. He also knows this is Harry Styles. It’s not fucking rocket science, is it. “I can,” he tells Harry.

“You can?”

Zayn chuckles. “Yes, Harry Styles, I can come. You’re doing the X-Factor right now, ain’t you?”

“How do you know?”

“Research,” Zayn replies easily. “Go do your show then. And when it’s done and you’re less in a rush, call me again and give me details. I’ll wait.”

Harry heaves a big sigh. “Okay. Thanks, Zayn. I’m sorry I’m bothering you all of a sudden like this.”

Zayn grins. “You’re never a bother, babe.”

Harry chuckles. “Yeah. I’ll call you later then. Thanks,” he says.

“Okay. Harry?”

“Yes?”

“Breathe. You’re fine. Head bowed and walk, Harry Styles,” Zayn says seriously, hoping Harry will understand all he means. _I got you. I remember you. I’ll make sure it goes fine._

Harry takes a breath, and then chuckles. “Cheers, babe. Talk to you later,” he murmurs, and ends the call.

“Fuck,” Zayn hisses as soon as Harry’s out, covering his face with his hands and just realizing what it is he’s doing.

Niall sighs and pats Zayn on the back. “You just fucked up big time because of him, didn’t ya?”

Zayn nods. Then, he takes some breaths and forces himself to go into business mode. “It’s fine. I’ll call the client I had for tonight. He’s one of the kinda nice ones. I’ll tell him something came up. I’ll tell him that I’ll make it up to him, I’ll be exceptionally good, hell, I’ll fucking ask him to fuck my mouth if that’s what it takes,” he tells himself as he looks for Bill Carson’s contact in his phone.

Niall grimaces. “TMI, Zed.”

“Sorry. But it’s true. Deepthroating a weapon, Niall. Don’t ever forget it.”

“I’ll try not to, cheers.”

Zayn finds the fucking number, and he already grimaces as the line rings. “Hello?” Carson says at last upon answering.

“Hey, Bill,” Zayn smiles sheepishly. “It’s, um, Zayn.”

Carson hums. “Hello,” he just repeats. Zayn hears rustles and mouths a curse, because he probably called Carson while he’s at work and can’t speak. _Go out of the room, please, I need to stand you up like _now_._

“Hey, Zayn,” Carson says after a moment. “Sorry, I’m at work. Had to go out of a meeting. What’s wrong? You never call at this hour.”

“Yeah, um, Bill, listen, something came up for tonight, and I can’t make it for our date. I’m so sorry, babe, I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

Carson hums. “I booked a restaurant for tonight,” he says coldly.

Zayn rolls his eyes. That’s all he does with Carson, going to posh restaurants and then letting him fuck him. “I’m sorry, babe. Please forgive me?”

Carson scoffs. “Yeah. Okay. But I’ll complain to your agency. This is really short notice. I know things can come up. But I don’t appreciate them coming up when I pay a fuckton of money, Zayn.”

Zayn feels a flare of anger mounting in his stomach, but he keeps it down. “I understand. Do what you need to. Dahlia will book you a new appointment with me if you want. Have a nice day.”

“Yeah. You too,” Carson says, and ends the call.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Zayn murmurs.

Niall’s eyes are sending up a storm when Zayn raises his head and looks at him. “I hate that they treat you as a fucking _thing _they pay for, Zayn,” he says, probably having heard Carson even through the phone.

Zayn sighs and nods. “Well, Harry doesn’t, at least.”

“He’s still a client. Please, don’t fucking forget it. I don’t wanna see you blown to tiny fucking pieces again.”

Zayn feels a wave of fondness for Niall, and goes for a hug, to which Niall obliges fast and easily. “Thanks, Ni. For worrying.”

“Always, Zed.”

Zayn’s work phone goes off again, and when Zayn sees that it’s Dahlia, his insides flip. Nonetheless, he answers. “Hello?”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Dahlia hisses. “Carson’s angry as a fucking bull, Zayn. Said you cancelled right now. Are you okay? Did you break something? Please tell me you’re not in the fucking hospital with a broken bone, Zayn. You’re booked for the rest of the fucking month, and…”

“Thanks for worrying about my health, Dahlia, but no,” Zayn says as coldly as he can manage. “I stood Carson up because Harry Styles needs me more.”

Dahlia shuts up for a moment. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not. Harry Styles called me for a party tonight. It’s short notice, but I accepted, because he pays five times more than Carson,” he tells Dahlia. It’s true, that Harry pays a lot more, and she doesn’t need to know all the other reasons. “As a matter of fact,” he then adds, “we need to reschedule my appointments based on what Harry Styles wants to do, even. Because he’s a fucking gold mine, and that’s good for me and for you. If I can make as much money with one VIP appointment as I make with five _normal _ones, I don’t think it’s rocket science, Dahlia.”

Dahlia doesn’t speak for a moment. In that moment, Zayn thinks that he’s fucked up, lost his job, being sued, and other cataclysms.

Then, Dahlia sighs. “You’re right. Yeah. Okay then. Go be Harry Styles’s escort and then call me tomorrow and tell me what the fuck he wants to do. You’re not used to not having your way, are you, Zayn?”

Zayn grins. “You’ve been working with me for five years, doll. Having my way with you and the agency is about all the freedom I fucking get. And if my freedom brings you more money, I think it’s a win-win.”

Dahlia sighs again. “Yeah. Don’t fly too close to the fucking sun when you think you’re free, Zayn. You know how poor little Icarus split his head open.”

_If only you knew how bad I split my head four years ago, Dahlia. _“Don’t worry, my love. My wings are not made of wax.”

When the phone call with Dahlia is over, Niall sighs. “Your wings _are _made of wax, Zed,” he says grimly. “It’s only that you can’t see it ‘cause the sun is already blinding you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're halfway through! Thank you so much for all your lovely comments, they really make me so happy!  
As usual, let me know what you're thinking :)
> 
> I am also on Tumblr as wont-you-stay-till-the-am.tumblr.com, come hit me up if you wanna talk.


	6. You feel just fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re fine. You feel just fine,” Zayn says.  
“I don’t think I do. But I’ll pretend.”  
Zayn is not a person for bullshit and pity, because he just nods and looks at Harry in the eyes. “I’ll teach you how, then. Whatever you need, Harry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: As stated in the tags, this fic is a Bottom Zayn, but there is a single scene where Harry is the bottom. The scene is in this chapter. Just thought I'd give you all a warning. After this, the fic will keep being just a Bottom Zayn.
> 
> Usual disclaimer: I don't know or own any of the characters present in this work. I only own the plot and any eventual original character.

Harry does call Zayn again, as soon as his day at the X-Factor is over, and tells him that he’ll send his driver to pick him up wherever he needs and bring him to the studios where Simon Cowell’s party is gonna be held. He also tells him he can wear what he wants, it’s not a fancy gathering, Simon said.

While Harry changes into more elegant and less comfortable clothes—another suit, always Gucci because Harry has probably a fetish for those, this time the red one with the green and purple flowers—he manages to work himself into the mother of all states. Simon has told him he could call his friends as well, because the old man probably understands Harry a little bit better than Harry thought, so he also calls Louis and Liam. They agree to come to the party, and Harry feels a bit more settled knowing that he’s gonna be surrounded by his two closest people on Earth, and Zayn.

Is it stupid to find comfort in having an escort at his side? Maybe it is. Harry is beyond the point of really caring, if he’s honest.

He goes to the main room of the party. It’s a room in the second building of the X-Factor complex, big enough to host a couple hundred people, and to Harry it feels like there are _literally _a couple hundred people around already, although he knows they’re not even close to a hundred.

He talks to the nice ladies at the door letting guests in, giving them Zayn’s name and permission to let him pass when he gets there.

Louis and Liam arrive as soon as they can, and they immediately glue themselves to Harry, and Harry finds that he can breathe a little bit better. He doesn’t even know _why _he’s so fucking anxious. It’s the parties, the people, the eye they give him when they look at him and think ‘Poor sod, had a good thing going, and threw it out the window’. He knows everybody thinks that. He knows Simon also thinks that, because he’s part of Harry’s ex label, and he was beyond angry when Harry sat him down and told him he wanted to terminate his contract and his tour.

It’s honestly quite surprising that Simon even thought about Harry as a judge. But Simon has always had a soft spot for Harry, and if Harry knows him a little, he also thinks that being so close to a stage will maybe make Harry understand that he should go back.

As if Harry doesn’t think about going back every three fucking minutes already.

One of the girls at the door—Harry thinks her name is Natalia, he’s not sure, he should ask her later when he feels like he can speak like a proper human being again—reaches him maybe half an hour into the party, when Harry is already at his second drink and should stop, and smiles at him. “Mr. Styles, your boyfriend is here, just wanted to tell you,” she says.

Harry sighs and nods. “Thanks, love,” he replies. _I should know her name, she’s a person, she works here and she’s working for me right this second_, he thinks.

That’s when he spots Zayn smiling brightly and coming towards him.

He’s not wearing any suit, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t look fucking gorgeous. His hair is all loose, combed to the right side of his head and exposing only one of his side shavings, and he’s wearing a white button-up over a pair of tight, black skinny jeans. Harry doesn’t know how Zayn managed to dress so casual and still look fancy enough for a non-fancy-à-la-Cowell party, and yet he did manage.

“Fuck,” Harry mutters under his breath, shaking his hair and then combing it backwards with his fingers. It makes Louis and Liam snort a laugh, and despite it all, he laughs back and flips them off as he moves to walk and meet Zayn halfway.

Zayn smiles even more brightly, and as soon as they’re in close proximity, he easily wraps his arms around Harry’s neck and kisses him. It’s not anything heavy, they have an audience and Harry’s sure they’re watching, but it’s there, and it feels comforting even though it’s just for show. “Hey, babe,” Zayn grins. “I missed you.”

Harry chuckles. “Missed you too.”

Harry thinks that neither of them will ever know what the other really means. “You okay?” Zayn asks, frowning. “You’re shaking, Haz,” he adds, barely mouths it on Harry’s lips.

Harry gulps down and nods. “It’s the party. This is a shit environment for me. My whole ex label is here. And I had two drinks, which means two drinks too many,” he replies honestly.

Zayn sighs and then smiles. “I got you, babe, yeah?”

Harry realizes he needs to warn Zayn about one more thing, so he speaks again. “Ben’s here. I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner. I forgot. Sorry.”

Zayn chuckles, and presses his lips on Harry’s one more time. “Honestly, babe? I don’t give a fuck about him. I’m too happy to see you again. There you have it, my small truth of the day.”

It eases Harry’s heart, lungs and stomach a little, knowing that Zayn means it. They’ve done this already once, the small truths, and he knows Zayn is totally, truly himself when he says one, even if it’s not anything major. Harry will take it, because he feels like he fucking needs something _true _in this moment, no matter how small.

_True_ are also Louis and Liam, who careen on Harry and Zayn without hesitation, shouting and patting Zayn on the back so hard his whole body rattles. “Oi oi!” Louis screams. “We missed you, lad!”

Zayn laughs. “Really?”

They both nod frantically and hug him, and Harry’s brain short-circuits a little when he realizes Zayn is _happy _to hear it. He’s smiling so brightly he’s using his whole face, his eyes are sparkling and his perfect teeth are on display with his tongue behind them, and for a wild, stupid second, Harry forgets that he’s _hired _Zayn for the night, and everything feels so real it cuts Harry’s breath short.

He manages to get himself in check, and smiles at Zayn. “Wanna get a drink?”

Zayn looks at him, blinks a couple times, and then shakes his head. “Nah, I don’t feel like drinking tonight, babe.”

It’s so small, the gesture Zayn makes in that moment. He’s at another VIP party, with free booze he could take advantage of, but Harry just told him that he thinks he already drank too much, and there Zayn is, not wanting Harry to keep drinking.

Harry is tipsy, he really is, and he’s anxious and nervous and he already wants to go home, so that small gesture is all it takes for him to start feeling tears pool in his eyes. He doesn’t know how to hide it, so he hugs Zayn, tight, burying his face in his shoulder.

Zayn’s arms go around him without any hesitation, and he’s also holding on tight, like he really _understands _Harry’s not feeling fine, at all.

“Lads?” Zayn says, not letting Harry go. “Is there a smoking area, something, anything?”

Louis and Liam also understand, and a moment later Zayn is plastered to Harry’s side, leading him somewhere. “Head bowed and walk, Harry Styles. I’ll guide you,” he whispers to Harry.

They get to a garden. There’s people there as well, most of them smoking, but it’s not that many, and there’s no one where Zayn, Louis and Liam stop. There are two white armchairs and a small coffee table in the grass, and Harry sees the same armchairs and tables littered around the garden. Most of them are occupied—he sees Rita talking to Nick, a couple more people—but the ones where they stop are a bit further away, and Harry takes a couple breaths, trying to get a fucking grip.

He sees the doors to the back entrance of the X-Factor arena on the other side of the wide garden. He hasn’t even set foot in the arena yet.

“I’m sorry,” he chuckles, sitting on the armchair before his legs give up.

Easy as water, Zayn sits next to him, and Louis and Liam take the other armchair. “’S alright, babe,” Zayn says. “You’re fine. You feel just fine.”

“I don’t think I do. But I’ll pretend.”

Zayn is not a person for bullshit and pity, because he just nods and looks at Harry in the eyes. “I’ll teach you how, then. Whatever you need, Harry,” he says seriously.

Harry calms down, eventually. He takes more deep breaths, lets Zayn’s warm presence next to him do its magic, listens to Louis and Liam bicker, and he slowly gets himself in check.

Zayn notices, because he smiles at Harry, entwining their fingers. “See? You feel just fine,” he says.

Harry decides to believe him.

+

It breaks Zayn’s heart, when he realizes just how much of a mess Harry really is.

Zayn doesn’t think it takes a fucking degree to realize Harry got anxiety from whatever it is that made him loathe showbiz so much. He wishes he could do more than just smile at him and tell him that he’s fine, but he doesn’t think there’s anything else anyone can do except Harry himself.

He needs to face his issues, get to the bottom of them, speak about them. Not to Zayn, though. It’s not his place. He’s his escort, hired to look like his boyfriend and maybe help him let it all out by fucking, later. That breaks Zayn’s heart as well, but he can’t think about it now.

The alcohol isn’t probably helping Harry. He’s not drunk, not really, but he’s tipsy enough that everything probably feels a little bit too intense, the people blatantly staring at him, his ex record label eyeing him sideways as they speak, as if they’re talking about him and don’t wanna be noticed.

Zayn balls his fists and he has half a mind to go there and pull at Julian Bunetta’s greasy hair to tell him “Why are you even talking about him? You almost fucked up his voice, so don’t cry over your own spilt milk now”.

Of course, he doesn’t. He keeps staying next to Harry and talking to him with Louis and Liam, until Harry feels a bit more relaxed against his side. Zayn finds that he can breathe better too, as soon as Harry does.

“I’mma get you some water, yeah?” he asks Harry.

Harry smiles, and nods. “Cheers. I think I need it, my throat feels hoarse like I sang a whole concert without drinking.”

He says it so nonchalantly, and he probably doesn’t even realize, but Zayn does. He has a flash of Harry downing bottle after bottle of water on stage during his shows, smiling and prancing and happy, and his heart constricts a little where he knows Harry can’t see it.

“I got you, babe,” Zayn just says, and slips out of his seat letting his hand linger on Harry’s shoulder as he does so, and it’s not for show, because right now nobody’s looking.

It’s a bit crazy, but Rita fucking Ora apparently remembers Zayn, because she stops him while he’s on his way towards a table holding water and other beverages, and she even hugs him. Zayn does a little bit of small talk, and he even manages to tell her about his friend Niall who is a fan. She doesn’t need to be told more, and she grabs her purse, ripping a piece of paper from her notebook and signing it for Niall, adding _To my lovely Niall _for good measure, and then handing it to Zayn with a bright smile. The bird is honestly great, Zayn thinks, imagining Niall’s face the next day.

When Rita finally lets him go, Zayn resumes his quest for Harry’s water, and finally reaches the table, where he downs a big glass of water himself and then fills another one for Harry.

“I knew it was you.”

Zayn would very much like to say he doesn’t recognize the voice on the spot, but the truth is that he does, immediately, and it takes him all his fucking acting skills not to flinch.

He raises his head from the glass, and Ben is there, looking at Zayn with wide eyes, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

Another thing Zayn realizes is that he doesn’t feel panic rise up in his throat, like the first time he saw Ben again at Ed’s party. Zayn just looks at Ben, at the small sneer he can see on his face, at the way his face has gone a little pale, and he can’t find any remnants of love for the man who broke his heart, the heart Zayn only learned to guard afterwards.

He only thinks that he wants to go back to Harry. Harry might be getting glimpses of Zayn’s heart just the same, but Zayn doesn’t want to believe that he’ll treat Zayn’s heart like it’s nothing, like Ben Winston did.

Zayn smiles politely. “Yes, it’s me. Hello.”

Ben shakes his head. “I knew it was you,” he says again. “I saw you, at the other party, Ed’s. I thought I was too drunk and imagining stuff.”

“And yet it’s really me,” Zayn sighs. “I’d say good to see you again, but alas, I’m afraid it’s not a good sight at all.”

Ben gets a step closer to Zayn, and Zayn feels the thrums of the panic belonging to a younger Zayn course through his body, so he takes a step back. “Does your boyfriend know you’re a fucking whore?” Ben asks, to be mean, to hurt Zayn, even though he has no right. If anything, it’s Zayn who should be angry.

Zayn smiles. “Does your wife know you know the whore?”

Ben goes even paler, but then he licks his lips. Zayn thinks he looks kinda high. “My wife’s not here tonight. You still have my number, right?”

Zayn almost laughs in Ben’s face, because _now _he understands. Ben is not angry. He’s _jealous_. He _misses _Zayn and he would like Zayn to call him, have another date, have another go at Zayn, because even after refusing Zayn’s love and abandoning him like a broken toy, he’s still thinking about the sex, and he probably misses doing it with a man, Zayn thinks with an ugly pleasure.

Zayn chuckles. “Nope,” he says easily. “And, even if I still had it, I wouldn’t call you.”

Ben arches an eyebrow. “Why?”

Zayn could tell Ben a lot of things. _Because you broke my heart. Because it took me months to recover from how you shattered my heart. Because I don’t need you anymore. Because I’m not stupid and I’ve learned how to defend my heart from people like you._

He doesn’t tell Ben any of that. Because now he’s Harry’s escort, pretending to be his boyfriend, and the truth is that the only thing that matters is that Ben can’t go about blabbering about Harry’s bloke being a prostitute. So he smiles. “Because I’m not a ‘whore’ anymore,” he says, making inverted commas in the air. “You asked if Harry knows if I’m a whore. Well, Ben, not only does Harry know, but he loved me enough that he made me stop being one. So no. No number, no whore. Have a good evening.”

Ben grabs him by an arm when Zayn turns to leave. “Good luck with that,” he murmurs. “Harry has issues. He gets addicted to things too fast, only to get scared afterwards and quit, and you will probably be no different, Zayn. Just a friendly advice.”

It makes Zayn so mad he’s about to punch Ben in his fucking nose, but in the end, he manages to contain himself, and harshly shrugs Ben’s hand away from his arm. “He loves me,” he tells Ben, and it’s refreshing, even if it’s a lie. “He loves me and I love him. _We _will decide if it’s anything different. You stopped having a say in my life when you showed me that I was nothing but an expensive inflatable doll, Ben. Stay away from me, and from Harry. Bye.”

As he retreats away from a speechless Ben, Zayn feels like crying, because there’s a tiny part of him that desperately wishes that the small lies could be real truths.

But if there’s something that Zayn actually learned from Ben Winston, is that there’s no one that can make him stop being a whore out of their love for him. Zayn needs to choose it for himself, and he’s not ready, not in the slightest, not if there’s nothing else he can do.

Zayn is perfectly in check and with a big glass of water in his hand for Harry when he goes back to their armchairs. But Harry isn’t there, only Louis and Liam. “Where’s Haz?” he asks, setting the glass on the small coffee table.

Louis sighs. “He… he said he wanted to take a look at the stage,” he replies, pointing at a set of white doors on the other side of the garden. “Zayn? He’s not fine, Harry. Please be careful with him, yeah? I know it’s just work for you,” he adds in a whisper, “but I think if you break him more than he already is, he’ll never recover.”

Zayn understands. He understands Louis’s concern and protectiveness, and he understands that he must not trust a fucking _escort _around Harry, not with all his issues. So he doesn’t take Louis’s comment personally, and he just smiles. “I’m gonna make sure he’s fine enough. Not because it’s work, but because he deserves it,” he says, and Louis will never know how _honest _Zayn is in that moment, but Zayn says it anyway.

Louis nods. “Cheers. You’re a good lad,” he sighs with a smile. “What did Ben Winston want from you? I saw you two speak.”

Zayn gulps down some air. “Just nonsense about Harry singing. He was kinda drunk, didn’t make much sense to be honest. Maybe he was even high, I dunno.”

Louis’s eyes are as cold as ice when he looks at Zayn again. “Stay away from Ben Winston, Zayn, yeah? He’s a bad one. Trust me.”

_Oh, believe me, I fucking know_. Zayn nods. “Yeah, okay. Don’t worry. I have no intention of getting to know him.”

Louis nods too, and Zayn excuses himself, striding towards the white doors that lead to the X-Factor arena, because in that moment the only thing he wants is to be with Harry, make sure he’s fine, and ask him to tell him another small truth in a world of lies.

+

Harry gets silently through the back doors of the arena, and a small part of him is already worried about leaving Zayn alone with all those people without any warning, but he knows Louis and Liam will make sure he’s fine.

Now, he just wants to take a look at the stage. Everything is so dark Harry literally can’t see anything, but he remembers that stage and that arena like he only saw it last time the day before, so he reaches for the small light switch under the amplifiers, and the stage lights up.

Harry releases a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. It’s just a small, warm, yellow spotlight at the centre of the stage, and there’s a lone mic on a stand right in the middle of it, exactly by the red X logo of the singing contest.

They found a couple of really good singers in the auditions today. Harry knows they’re good and they deserve to be on that stage. But right now, as he stares at the mic, he’s not seeing them.

He’s seeing _himself_, on a thousand different stages in a thousand different countries, doing what he loves, clutching the mic stand to his chest as he sings his fucking heart out, and he misses it so much it’s making his heart shrivel.

He doesn’t realize he’s climbing the stairs until he’s by the mic, and the spotlight on top kinda blinds him, but it’s okay, because the rest of the arena is plunged into total darkness, and the point is that he’s able to stand there, by himself, and it doesn’t feel like his throat is closing off and his hands are sweating and he has to run away.

It feels weirdly settling, like when you stop doing something, but you know you haven’t forgotten how to do it. Harry smiles, sighs, and he looks around the stage.

That’s when he sees the guitar. It’s propped against a stool. It’s an acoustic one, a bit anonymous, and yet, in this moment, it looks like a brick of gold to Harry.

He picks it up, straps it to his chest. It’s like hugging an old friend you haven’t seen in years. Harry’s own guitar, the one Louis bought for him when his first world tour was announced, currently lies in his closet, unused in two years. Harry hasn’t even _looked _at it since he stopped singing. Its strings are probably fucked up by now, begging to be changed. Maybe the _End Gun Violence _stickers have peeled off. Harry doesn’t know.

Harry plays a tentative A major on the guitar he has now, and it’s perfectly tuned. It’s probably one of the guitars the X-Factor crew has at the ready, backstage, for contestants who ask for one but haven’t brought their own.

As he goes back to the mic, Harry thinks about the person sending texts to the radio. _Just one more time, babe_.

How bad could it be, if Harry sang just one more time? He knows he shouldn’t, he knows the feeling will be more addictive than any drug. He’ll shape the notes and the lyrics, and when he’ll be done, he’ll miss singing twice as much, and maybe it’ll finally kill him.

But Harry doesn’t feel like thinking rationally right now. He just feels the pull in his stomach, the tiny part of his heart screaming _You have to sing right now or you’ll die_, and there’s no one listening, so Harry doesn’t even try to fight it.

He doesn’t think about the song, he just moves his fingers, and as soon as he starts playing, he knows what he’s doing, he knows his place in this world full of lies, he knows what he was born to do.

He places his lips to the mic. Harry knows it’s turned off, but the point is not the fucking mic right now, is it.

So Harry opens his mouth, and sings.

+

Zayn knows Harry must be having a fucking tough moment right now, so when he opens the doors of the backstage of the arena, he does so as quietly as he can. They’re very well oiled, and they luckily don’t even make the tiniest noise.

Only after he gets inside and closes them behind himself again does he realize what is happening.

Harry’s on the stage, bathed in a single spotlight, guitar strapped to his chest, and he’s _singing_.

Zayn doesn’t move.

_Woke up alone in this hotel room_

_Played with myself, where were you?_

It feels like Harry is digging holes in Zayn’s stomach. Zayn holds his breath, too scared that even breathing is gonna give away his presence there, and he clutches at his chest, where his heart is breaking repeatedly every time a note leaves Harry’s mouth.

_We haven’t spoke since you went away_

_Comfortable silence is so overrated_

_Why won’t you ever be the first one to break?_

_Even my phone misses your call, by the way_

Zayn’s eyes fill with tears. He’s wished for this so much, for Harry Styles to be on a stage and sing again, that his brain cannot quite compute that he’s now watching him. It’s also because right now, Zayn is not looking at Harry Styles, his favourite singer, his celeb crush. He’s looking at _Harry_, singing his own song with his eyes closed and a small frown in the middle of his forehead, like the words are costing him pain.

And of course they do. Harry hasn’t sung in a long, long time, and he misses it. He said he misses it so much it makes him nauseous and dizzy. Zayn missed it too, so much, and he wishes Harry could know how much his songs mean to Zayn, how Zayn listened to them when he started being an escort and his heart was all fucked up and he felt useless, dirty, a whore. In those first months of his sex career, Harry’s voice was the thing he listened to after letting strangers fuck him and use him, and Harry’s voice never judged him. It eased him, helped him set one foot in front of the other.

_I saw your friend that you know from work_

_He said you feel just fine_

Zayn mouths the words along with Harry. He knows all of them, by heart, carved inside his ribcage like Harry wrote them especially for him.

Harry starts to smile, and he sings a bit louder. The mic is turned off, but it doesn’t matter. Zayn can see Harry’s body relax the more he gets into his song. His voice isn’t at its best, of course it isn’t after such a long time of not using it, but that doesn’t matter either, because to Zayn it’s still the most fucking beautiful voice in the world.

_Maybe one day you’ll call me and tell me that you’re sorry too_

_But you, you never do_

There are back vocals missing. Zayn can’t find it in his heart to complain, because _this_, just Harry Styles with his guitar and a turned-off mic, is better than any fucking show Zayn’s ever been to.

He’s been there, in the front row, watching Harry wear his suits and jump and scream and joke with his band, and it was always something, watching Harry _own _the stage.

He’s not really owning it right now, but at the same time it feels like it’s the only place Harry can be, and it breaks Zayn’s heart that Harry doesn’t want to be there anymore, not really.

But for now, Harry’s singing, and Zayn’s listening. _Just one more time, babe_, he texts Harry every morning. Harry doesn’t know, but he’s granting Zayn’s wish better than any song in a radio ever could.

_Comfortable silence is so overrated_

_Why won't you ever say what you want to say?_

_Even my phone misses your call, by the way_

Harry gives a last chord, and then _From The Dining Table _is over. Zayn doesn’t speak. He just gets closer to the stage.

Harry rests his forehead against the mic, and heaves a sigh, like he’s run a mile or gotten free from a prison, and then chuckles shakily, his shoulders hunched and his hands shaking on the guitar he’s still clutching.

Zayn sighs too, because he also feels like he’s run a mile.

That’s when Harry notices him. His head jolts up. He sees Zayn, and his eyes blink furiously as he looks left and right like he wants to find some place to hide. “You weren’t supposed to hear,” Harry says, shakily. He takes a step backwards, taking the guitar off in a haste, like it’s burning him.

“Harry, no, calm down,” Zayn says as quietly as he can, his hands raised in a surrendering gesture as he climbs the steps of the stage. He feels like he’s trying to pet a wounded tiger.

Harry shakes his head, taking harsh breaths through his nose. “This was stupid. I shouldn’t have sung. I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry. It probably even sounded like shit.”

Harry keeps inching backwards, until his back hits one of the walls of the backstage, where Zayn reckons crew members wait to let the contestants on stage when it’s their turn.

Zayn has gotten to the middle of the stage, now, and he doesn’t take any more steps. He just stays there, staring at Harry, and Harry stares back.

“It sounded like _you_,” Zayn says, with all he fucking has, even if Harry won’t ever know what he means. “It sounded like _you _and it was beautiful,” he adds. He feels tears pooling in his eyes, because he’s missed Harry so much, is it even okay to miss someone you don’t know so much? Zayn doesn’t know and doesn’t care.

Harry blinks, and when he does, his own tears run down his cheeks. “I miss it. I miss it so much it kills me.”

Zayn nods.

They don’t speak for one more moment.

And then Zayn almost _runs _to Harry, covers the distance between them in three long strides, until he’s backing Harry into the backstage wall on purpose, and they’re kissing.

Harry feels like he’s deflating in Zayn’s arms. He sags against Zayn, his fingers running through Zayn’s loose hair, and Zayn opens his mouth to let Harry slip his tongue inside. Harry does, groaning, and his cheeks are wet with tears and he must feel Zayn’s are as well, but neither of them asks anything, because they know the other can’t or doesn’t want to speak right now.

Zayn lightly pushes at Harry, until they’re properly backstage, and everything is dark again as they stumble down some stairs. Zayn can make out the shapes of chairs and tables, they’re in the waiting area behind the stage, and they keep kissing and stumbling until they hit a table.

Harry’s breaths are harsh and rough, but so are Zayn’s. “What do you need, Harry?” he asks, because he has to.

“Fuck me, Zayn, here, now,” Harry groans, his mouth going for Zayn’s again.

Zayn nods in their kiss. It’s a bit dangerous and a bit reckless, anybody could come look for them, but he honestly can’t give a fuck about that right now, because Harry feels like he’s about to break into tiny pieces in Zayn’s hands, and Zayn will do all Harry needs to make sure he keeps all his parts together.

They don’t have time or place for getting naked. So Zayn just turns Harry around, grabs his hands and places them on the flat surface of the table, to make him brace himself there. Harry goes easily, and he moans when Zayn reaches around his body for the button and fly of his trousers, pulling them down together with his pants. “I got you, babe,” Zayn whispers into Harry’s ear, leaning over his back.

“I know,” Harry replies.

Zayn gets his wallet out, retrieves a condom and a packet of lube. He rips the packet open, lubes his fingers up, and then starts opening Harry up at a slow but hard pace, thinking that he wishes he could see Harry as he takes his fingers and groans on them, arches his Gucci-clothed back. The back of Harry’s neck comes to rest on Zayn’s shoulder behind him, and Zayn keeps his face next to Harry’s, their cheeks brushing each other, their mouths next to one another.

It’s not the time and place, but Zayn still takes his time opening Harry up, because he can feel that it’s been a while for Harry since he last bottomed. “Are you sure, babe?” he has to ask, because what if Harry’s drunk, what if…

Harry nods. “Yeah, Zayn. I want it. I wanted to sing and I did. I want you to fuck me now. I know what I’m doing. But thanks. For worrying.”

Zayn nods. He rolls the condom on, uses the rest of the lube on his dick, and then slides inside Harry, as swiftly as he can. Harry whimpers and only leaves one hand on the table in front of him, while the other flies back, wrapping around the nape of Zayn’s neck, like he wants to keep Zayn closer.

Zayn bottoms out, grabbing Harry’s hips and keeping their clothed bodies flush together. It’s too dark to see Harry’s face, but Zayn remembers how Harry looks while he fucks, so he recognizes the small, pleasured grunts, the heavy pants.

He gives Harry one more moment, and then rocks his hips. The table screeches on the floor. “Yes,” Harry groans. “Yes, Zayn, please.”

Zayn thrusts his hips more forcefully, and sets a pace. Harry feels unbearably tight and hot around his cock, and Zayn would have preferred doing this on a bed, where he could have laid Harry on his back and _looked _at him, but this is not about Zayn. It’s about what Harry needs, and Harry needs the grounding and the closeness, right now. So Zayn provides it.

He gets a firmer hold of Harry’s hips, and starts to thrust forward while at the same time moving Harry’s body backwards so that he meets his thrusts. Harry sighs and grunts and pants, his other hand now leaving the table as well to wrap around Zayn’s neck, until Harry’s body is arched backwards. His hips thrust back onto Zayn’s dick, and it’s so hot, they’re both sweating and they’re gonna be a mess, but they’ll worry about that later.

Zayn has learned Harry’s body a month earlier, so he recognizes the tell-tale signs of Harry being close before Harry can even voice it. Zayn kisses him sloppily on the cheek, and then reaches forward to wrap his hand around Harry’s dick.

He should just shut up and make Harry come, but instead, Zayn talks. “Tell me a small truth, Harry,” he asks, demands.

Harry takes a harsh breath. “I know your job is to make me believe you’re being yourself, but it feels too much like it’s not a lie, and I love it,” he replies.

It’s not a small truth. It’s the opposite of a small truth, and maybe Harry is too wrapped up in his sex haze, but maybe he isn’t. Maybe he _wanted _Zayn to know this. “Do you want my small truth?” he asks Harry.

Harry nods.

“This?” Zayn whispers, “When we fuck, when we’re naked and raw? It’s the most honest _myself _I will ever give anybody, and I’m glad I’m giving it to you.”

Again, it’s not a small truth. It’s a big, incredibly big truth, but Zayn gives it up willingly and consciously, because he knows Harry will treat it like a fragile crystal, or at least, Zayn decides he wants to believe Harry will.

It’s also what makes Harry come. He gasps and grunts and shakes, and a moment later he’s shuddering bodily as he comes all over Zayn’s hand and clenches around his dick.

Zayn doesn’t have time to realize what’s happening, but the next moment Harry’s turning around and letting Zayn’s cock slip away from his hole, and then he’s kneeling down, ripping the condom off and wrapping his lips around Zayn’s dick. Zayn heaves a surprised sigh, and grabs a handful of Harry’s hair, without pulling, just holding.

Harry swallows around the tip, and then his mouth sinks further and further, until Zayn feels himself hitting the back of Harry’s throat, that throat from which his favourite songs and lyrics and sounds come. Harry swallows again, repeatedly, and Zayn’s done for. “I’m gonna come, babe.”

Harry doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t move. So Zayn comes in his mouth, shivering bodily himself.

Harry keeps swallowing until Zayn is spent, and only when he’s licked him clean does he let him go and stand up, leaning into the table with ragged breaths.

Zayn hauls him by the lapels of the jacket he’s still wearing, and kisses him. It’s weird, to taste himself on someone’s tongue. His clients almost never do that to him, and even Harry didn’t do it last time.

Now, they’ve done it. Harry has let Zayn come in his mouth and he groaned like he loved it.

Some things, you can’t really fake, and this is one of them. “I’m glad you gave me parts of your real self,” Harry whispers. “I’ll take good care of them, I promise.”

Zayn chuckles. “I’ll take care of your real parts as well, Harry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song quoted in this chapter is _From The Dining Table_ by Harry Styles.
> 
> Let me know what you're thinking :)
> 
> I am also on Tumblr as wont-you-stay-till-the-am.tumblr.com, come hit me up if you wanna talk.


	7. Real parts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And maybe one day you’ll be strong enough to do what you love again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer: I don't know or own any of the characters present in this work. I only own the plot and any eventual original character.

This time, when they get into Harry’s car, Harry doesn’t ask Zayn if he wants him to leave him in Piccadilly, and Zayn doesn’t ask for it either. Wordlessly, they both go to Harry’s place.

Harry makes them French toasts, because, again, they haven’t been able to eat much at the party. It’s quite warm, so they eat them outside, on Harry’s terrace, and Zayn laughs when Harry’s toast breaks and he makes a mess of cheese on his own chest, almost getting a first-degree burn in the process.

Then, Zayn gives Harry a wicked grin, and straddles him, licking the cheese off of Harry’s pecs. They fuck on the armchair, twice. The first time, Zayn rides Harry on it. The second time, Harry bends Zayn over the backrest.

They don’t really talk, especially not about the umpteenth breakdown Harry has had in front of Zayn, and not about the fact Harry sang one of his own songs after more than two years of silence. Harry knows that Zayn understands the extent of what it meant. They don’t really know each other, but Harry himself has told Zayn that he doesn’t sing anymore, not even to himself.

Harry takes comfort in the fact that Zayn understands.

They use the Jacuzzi again.

The hot water is nice, and the soap smells like tropical fruits. Zayn sits in Harry’s lap and laughs as he gathers dollops of foam in his hands and covers Harry’s hair with it, until Harry probably looks like fucking Robespierre or something. Harry laughs too, because he’s weak to contagious laughter, and Zayn’s laugh is probably the most contagious he’s ever witnessed.

They don’t fuck again in the hot tub, despite Zayn being seated in Harry’s lap with his legs wrapped around Harry’s hips. They’re naked and both of them are half-hard already, but they don’t move to do anything about that.

Zayn washes the foam from Harry’s hair, his eyes darting to Harry’s every two or three seconds, and he looks like he’s mulling something over in his head, before he speaks at last. “I know you don’t wanna talk about it, and I know you wouldn’t talk to _me _about it even if you did,” he says in a whisper, curling locks of Harry’s hair around his fingers. “But I think what you did tonight is important. For yourself. This block you have. It’s not good. I don’t know what happened to you, babe, but whatever it was, it gave you anxiety and it brought you away from your music even if you knew you were gonna die with how much you’d miss it. So I think that singing, even just to yourself, was important for you. And maybe one day you’ll be strong enough to do what you love again.”

If Harry was someone else, he would get angry at his _escort _daring to speak about such a personal issue of his. But Zayn is a hundred percent right, and Harry doesn’t feel like denying it, because he’s pretty sure there was no way for Zayn _not _to figure out something’s wrong with Harry, from the very first time they met. So Harry just smiles, and starts curling locks of Zayn’s hair around his fingers, mirroring Zayn’s movements. “I sang to you as well, apparently.”

Zayn chuckles. “Yeah. Didn’t know you were this good. And I only heard you once, babe.”

“_Just one more time, babe_,” Harry says, a little bit to himself, thinking about his anonymous fan.

Zayn frowns. “Whatcha mean?”

Harry shakes his head. “Nothing, nothing. There’s just this person. They’re a fan of mine, and every morning they text the radio and request that I air a song of mine, saying things like ‘just one more time, babe’. I never oblige. I think it would be too much, airing my songs. I would get too fucking sad and anxious and even my only joy, the radio show, would be ruined,” he tells Zayn honestly, because these, the small truths, they can do.

Zayn smiles, and nods. “Do you know who they are, calling you ‘babe’? I might be jealous,” he says with a grin.

Harry snorts. “No, I don’t. I even have their number saved in my phone. I had half a mind to fucking text the person and be like ‘I’m so fucking sorry I never grant your wish, believe me’ or summat. Because I am. Sorry. But I never did text them, of course. ‘S not like I can give out my number to a random fan on a whim. And I can’t give ‘em any proper explanation for all the… _things_, I feel inside,” he says, clutching a little bit at his chest and hoping Zayn understands what he means.

Zayn blinks. His mouth looks a bit agape. “You saved their number and you wanted to text ‘em to say sorry?”

Harry shrugs. “Yeah. I mean, sorry to them and to my whole fucking fanbase, I guess. I know I still have fans. I know they miss me. And I am sorry. I only wish I could tell them how much.”

Zayn smiles, then. It’s a different kind of smile, not that bright, but it looks more honest, somehow. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but then he leans forward and kisses Harry, slow and hard, for a long time. “I’m sure they’ll understand, babe.”

“I hope so,” Harry chuckles. “I never meant to hurt anyone else when I quit. I didn’t even mean to hurt _myself_, but I knew it was gonna happen.”

Zayn nods. “I’m sorry. That whatever it was made you feel like there was no other way. Sometimes the only choice we have is picking the lesser of two evils, innit.”

Harry nods too. He kisses Zayn for a moment longer, and then decides to tell Zayn what he’s thinking, too. “Louis told me Ben approached you while I was having my epiphany on the fucking stage,” he says seriously. “He said that he warned you about Ben being a bad one. He couldn’t have imagined you probably already know. I don’t know what happened between you and Ben. But I also think it was important, that you spoke to him with your chin up.”

Zayn chuckles. “How do you know my chin was up? You didn’t see it.”

Harry chuckles too, and places his knuckles under Zayn’s chin. “Because your chin is always up, Zayn. Even when you say ‘Head bowed and walk’, your chin stays up. Even when you probably feel like you just wanna curl in a ball and disappear, your chin stays up, and you look like a fucking king cobra ready to attack. It’s quite overwhelming to watch. Louis said so, too. And he saw it first-hand.”

Zayn’s lips quiver for a moment, or maybe Harry just imagines. He can’t check, because Zayn attacks his mouth again, and again, as they kiss slow and hard, Harry wonders if he should stop feeling like this, them naked and telling each other small truths, is _real_. “I told Ben a couple lies,” Zayn admits at last, his eyes looking down and his long eyelashes tickling Harry’s cheeks. “I had to. Because he asked me if you knew I was a whore. So I told him that I’m not a whore anymore, because you cared about me enough to make me stop being one. I know I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry. But I couldn’t have him going about and telling people that Harry Styles’s boyfriend is a sex worker.”

Harry realizes his hands have closed harder around Zayn’s hips only when Zayn sighs a little louder, and strengthens the grip of his own arms around Harry’s neck. “Zayn. If you don’t want to do this anymore. At whatever time. And you need help,” he takes a breath. “You tell me. And I’ll help you. And it’s not ‘cause of stupid things like snatching you from the bad men and being a fucking knight, okay? This kind of romance doesn’t exist, I’m afraid. But if you realize one day that you don’t wanna do this anymore, if one day you open your eyes and wanna start over, go back to school, get a brand new fucking job, I will help you. Because you’re not ready to hear it, maybe, but you deserve so much more than… this,” he gestures to the Jacuzzi, knowing that Zayn will understand he doesn’t mean the hot tub per se. “And you deserve it for _yourself_, not because someone falls for you.”

Zayn doesn’t speak for a long, unbearably long time. In that time, Harry is afraid to have fucked everything up, to have crossed a line they didn’t agree upon in the fucking contract he signed to have Zayn. He’s afraid Zayn will stand up and scream at him that he has no right to say that, no right to blabber about Zayn deserving more when he’s just another fucking _client _himself. He would be right. But Harry doesn’t know how to say that Zayn _is _so much more, because it’s not his place to say it, and Zayn needs to figure that out for himself. It’s not about romance, not about falling in love. It’s about what Zayn wants, and what he _thinks _he deserves. Same as Harry, if you think about it.

Zayn doesn’t scream and doesn’t move. He just looks at Harry in the eyes, and his eyelashes are caging big, unshed tears.

Harry feels his stomach drop. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean to make you cry. I’m sorry.”

Zayn chuckles. When he does, the tears fall, and he sniffles. “Are you saying sorry for the nicest fucking thing a client’s ever told me, Harry?” he says. “If you’re even a client in this moment. I’m not actually sure, but I don’t wanna think about what we’re doing right now, if that’s okay with you.”

Harry nods.

Zayn sniffles again, and traces the edges of Harry’s swallows on his collarbones with his pointer finger. “There was a time when I thought it really was about romance, falling in love, and a knight was gonna save me from the bad men ‘cause he loved me too much to let me keep selling my body to the highest bidder,” he murmurs, his eyes trained on Harry’s ink. “His name was Ben Winston. And he broke my fucking heart.”

Harry wasn’t expecting that, except he was. Zayn is good at what he does, and Harry’s sure he wouldn’t have flipped that much at Ed’s party if Ben was just a simple, normal ex-client. There had to be more, and it wasn’t rocket science to understand, if he's honest.

“I fell in love with him from the very first night he booked me, probably,” Zayn keeps speaking. “I’d been an escort for less than a year. I didn’t know it wasn’t just about being able to have sex with whomever. I didn’t know I needed to make sure I gave ‘em my body, but not my heart. And Ben was fun, you know. He brought me places. He bought me nice gifts. He said I was the prettiest, most beautiful person in the world. He was gentle when we fucked. He even brought me to parties, although I was only ‘his friend’ when we were out. But I didn’t mind, because I fell for him hard, and I thought it was requited. Turns out that it wasn’t.”

Harry doesn’t speak when Zayn pauses. He knows the story isn’t over, and he knows it’s costing Zayn everything he has to tell it, because Harry is another client, same as Ben was, and he shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t trust Harry with the heart he said Ben broke, because Harry knows he wouldn’t dream of hurting Zayn, but _Zayn _doesn’t know, and it’s dangerous to trust someone so much, with what he does, even if Harry doesn’t want anything more than for Zayn to trust him.

So when Zayn opens his mouth to keep going with his story, Harry gently places his thumb on Zayn’s lips. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, babe,” he says honestly. “I understand you shouldn’t trust me with anything so close to your heart. So don’t tell me, if you don’t want to.”

Zayn chuckles and shakes his head. “Harry, I’ve trusted you with my heart no matter what I did, for a long time now, believe me. There’s just no point in pretending I’m guarding it from you like I guard it from all the others.”

Harry feels like this is the closest to Zayn’s _real, complete self _he’ll get, and he has to take it and cherish it, so he nods, and lets Zayn speak.

“I talked to Dahlia and the agency. Told them I wanted to quit. That I’d found someone who was worth more than the ridiculous amount of money I make at _The Cherry On Top_. Jesus, I was so fucking stupid,” Zayn chuckles bitterly, drying his eyes with the back of one hand. “I was so gone for Ben that I just took for granted he felt the same, you know. Dahlia is a nice girl. She told me to go home and think it over. I told her to fuck off, and I called Ben. We met, that night, and I told him I wanted to be with him, only him. Ben laughed. You know when something happens, and you can distinctly feel your heart crack, like, you can _hear _the sounds of your heart breaking?”

Harry nods, knowing that his hands are probably starting to be painful around Zayn’s hips, but not being able to let go. “I know. It sounds both like a leaf falling to the ground and like fucking Doomsday.”

Zayn nods too. “My heart breaking had the sound of Ben’s laugh. He told me I was great fun, great sex, but he wasn’t thinking about coming out and all that shit, like, _ever_, and also, he’d just gotten engaged, so if I had more than _my job _in mind, it was best to call everything off. We were at my place. I gave him my address. It was my old place, before I started making real money. I didn’t know that either. That I wasn’t supposed to give my address to clients. But Ben wasn’t a client to me, and I loved having him at my place. It felt like we were having real dates. That night I learned that I was the only one feeling like that. He went away. Called the agency and cancelled his subscription. Niall picked up my pieces afterwards. I learned how to be _this _Zayn, I learned not to show what I really feel to anyone, and I learned to make sure nobody can peek inside where my heart is. That’s what I owe to Ben Winston,” Zayn places his hand on his own chest, and he raises his chin, to look at Harry in the eyes. “I went back to the agency the next day, told Dahlia I thought it over, and I wanted to stay. If she understood my ‘crisis’ had to do with Ben cancelling his subscription, she never said. This is not a small truth, Harry Styles. This is one of my biggest, most honest secrets. And I’m giving it to you because I want to be stupid one more time, and believe you’ll cherish my real parts like you said you would. And if it bites me in the arse, you’ll just be another lesson I learn, I guess.”

It’s bitter, what Zayn says, like he already knows it will bite him in the arse. Harry could cry and beg him to believe that Harry won’t break his heart, but the truth is that he can’t promise Zayn that, because Harry has his own real, damaged parts to take care of. And that’s why this can’t be about romance, they can’t just declare their love for each other after pretending to date and fucking for two nights, sending all the rest to fuck itself out of the window. Because there’s a lot of _all the rest_, and they both know, and until they fix it, there’s no future for them. No future, just the small real parts of themselves they can give each other when they’re naked and honest and raw.

So Harry doesn’t tell Zayn that he wants to cherish him _whole_, and he doesn’t tell Zayn that he would be glad to be the one guarding Zayn’s heart, even though Harry really believes that.

Instead, he tells Zayn his biggest, most honest secret, and hopes Zayn will be able to cherish the real parts of him just the same.

“Ben Winston ruined my life before I kept ruining it with my own hands,” Harry says on a sigh, feeling the words crawl out of his mouth like shards of glass.

Zayn goes rigid in Harry’s arms. Harry isn’t looking at him, he has his head tipped upwards, staring at the ceiling, but he can feel Zayn’s eyes on him. “Ben?” Zayn asks.

Harry nods. “I met him a couple years after winning the X-Factor. He was the producer of my first music video. He was nice. Great fun. He said I was one of the best singers he’d ever worked with, and when the video was done, we kept in touch.”

Harry manages to bring down his eyes to Zayn again, and he finds him pale and motionless, with his eyes wide and his lips pressed in a tight line. “No, no, no!” Harry exclaims. “I know what you’re thinking. I know maybe you read some rumours when you, like, when you did your research on me,” he chuckles bitterly. “We were never together, I swear. Not that way. It’s not my heart he broke, Zayn. It was all the rest.”

Zayn gulps down. “What do you mean? What did he do to you?” he asks, harshly, like he’s angry for Harry already.

Harry smiles, tracing Zayn’s right cheekbone with his knuckles. “He brought me to parties. VIP ones. They were a lot. They weren’t the kind of party I brought you to, the first time and tonight. It was the kind of party where you’re packed into clubs, sweating, drinking, with almost no lights. Ben took a liking to me and Louis. Louis was at the beginning of his career. I’d already done a world tour by then, but that doesn’t mean I knew any better. Ben _guided_ us,” he says with another bitter laugh. “We thought he was guiding us into fame, into showbiz. The truth is that Ben guided us to a restroom, and taught us how to snort coke.”

Zayn opens his pretty mouth, but no sound comes out of it. He closes it again, takes a breath, and lets Harry speak like Harry did for him.

“We liked it. We kept going to the parties, we kept snorting lines in bathrooms and VIP booths. Everything was so fucking shiny, Zayn. We fell in the snake pit, and we didn’t even realize the snakes were biting us, because we were too busy laughing and thinking that everything sparkling was gold. Ben must have realized at some point, that things were getting out of hand for us. He washed his hands, gave us a nice speech about not overdoing it. Needless to say, it didn’t do shit for us. We kept snorting, even without Ben. There was always a party, always someone to go to. I had my dimples and curls, Louis had his pretty blue eyes. Most of the time we didn’t even have to ask, and someone was already there providing it for us. Until it wasn’t enough. We tried pills. We tried snorting more. It wasn’t enough. Then, we started with needles. Heroin was enough, apparently. We got hooked on that shit. For almost a year. Nobody ever noticed. We were good at hiding it. I started my second world tour, and I was fucked out of my mind for most of it. I felt so fucking invincible, Zayn. I was good, at hiding it. I thought I could go on forever, sticking a fucking needle in my veins and then be fine the next day, ready for a show. Nobody would notice, right? Louis thought the same.”

Zayn is crying by that point, and Harry feels guilty that he’s dropping such a huge issue on him, but it’s the first time he tells this to anyone who isn’t Liam or Louis, and Harry doesn’t exactly know how to stop. “I met Nick during my world tour. Through him, I also met Liam. Introduced him to Louis, and they started dating shortly after. They came to visit me, during my Christmas break, before the start of the last leg of my tour. We went to a party. That night, Louis and I got our little bags of heroin for a ridiculously low price. We were so fucking happy. Until we shot it up, and we realized that it was so cheap because it was shit. We almost od’d. Both of us. The only reason why I’m alive right now and able to be with you in my house is Liam. Because he was there with us, he got to us in time, and he brought us to the hospital, in secret, and made sure the doctors saved both me and Louis. It never got out. Liam wasn’t rich, at that point, but he had a good thing going on with Capital FM. He probably gave half his savings to the doctors not to tell. It turns out the best of us at hiding things is Liam Payne, because not only did he make sure the news wouldn’t get out, but he was able to do so without letting anyone in our label and PR teams get a single hunch about all that. He saved our arses, and our careers.”

“Fuck, Harry. I didn’t know,” Zayn murmurs.

Harry shrugs. “Of course you didn’t. Nobody does. After that, we didn’t touch that shit anymore. Liam even brought us to have tests for diseases and all that. We were clean, both of us. But we were addicted to heroin anyway, and I thought I would be able to be strong, I thought the big scare of that night would un-hook me on the spot, but it didn’t. Because as soon as the last leg of my tour started, and I found myself at yet another party, I was looking for the people with the drugs before even actually realizing it. And the moment I did realize it, that was the moment I got scared the most. So I ran away. I locked myself into my hotel bedroom for three days. And when I came out, I sat Simon Cowell down, and I told him I wouldn’t sing anymore. I got rid of all of it. The temptation, the addiction, and my music.”

Harry’s also crying by then, because explaining it to someone who doesn’t know any of it is debilitating, and he’s not sure he’s managing to actually give Zayn a reason why it had to be like that. He doesn’t know how to say that the fucking heroin lurks in every corner of every party in showbiz, and Harry was too scared that if he kept singing, kept being in the spotlight, the parties and the temptation would always be there, always trying to grab him by the hair and drag him towards another toilet, another needle, another high.

Zayn understands, though. Because he nods, and his hands cup Harry’s face. “Are you okay now, Harry?” he asks, seriously, and Harry knows what he means.

He nods. “Yeah. I’m not addicted anymore. I… even just working at the radio, I’ve attended dangerous parties, sometimes. That’s how Louis and I call them now, ‘dangerous parties’. I didn’t really wanna go, but sometimes you just can’t avoid it, you know. And it was there for me, if I wanted it. I managed not to go look for it. Louis too. Liam helped us. We should have gone into rehab, if I’m honest. But Louis didn’t want to fuck up his career, and I thought that locking myself up into a clinic would kill me. So we didn’t go. But we managed anyway. It wasn’t too late, we weren’t into it too deep. It felt like we were, I won’t lie. But we weren’t really. So we managed to get out of the snake pit on our own, or better, with just Liam Payne giving us a hand. We’re fine now. I lost my music over it. I won’t let it be for nothing, and honestly, right now the mere thought of even just smoking a joint makes me sick to my stomach, so I think it’s safe to say I’m not thinking about shooting up heroin anymore,” he says with a bitter chuckle.

Zayn releases a breath Harry hadn’t realized he was holding. He slumps against Harry’s chest, resting his forehead against Harry’s collarbone, and breathes in and out, slowly, for a minute before replying. “Scared the shit out of me, babe,” he mutters. “Okay. Yeah. I believe you. You don’t even drink that much, for Christ’s sake, there’s no way you’re a junkie right now. Sorry. Didn’t mean to use that word. I’ve been wondering what happened to you for a long time. I’m sorry it was this. I’m sorry it was Ben. I’m sorry you had to lose your music to get out of that shithole. I’m sorry for all of it.”

Harry gives Zayn a moment to ramble, because he can feel how hard Zayn’s shaking. It’s wild, that someone else is so shaken by Harry’s horror tale, but Harry smiles, because Zayn is always caring and attentive, and Harry doubts that’s an act of his. He can feel Zayn’s fingers ghost in the inside of his elbows, tracing signs that haven’t been there for a long time. He doesn’t move, and he lets Zayn examine his arms, because he can give him that as well.

“Do you swear to me that you’re fine?” Zayn asks at last, still with his forehead pressed on Harry’s collarbone.

Harry chuckles. “I swear, babe. I mean, I got really bad anxiety, I’m scared of going to parties if Louis and Liam ain’t gonna be there, and I banned myself from singing even when I’m alone because I’m scared that if I open my mouth and sing I’ll crawl back on a stage and that’ll bring me back to the parties and the showbiz and the shining snake pit, but for the rest, I’m clean and fine.”

Zayn raises his head. His eyes are red and Harry’s sure his face isn’t that wet because of the water in the hot tub, but he’s smiling when he kisses Harry, slow and hard again. “You don’t have to be scared of the parties, because Louis and Liam are gonna be there with you, and I’m gonna be there too, whenever you’ll need me,” Zayn says slowly. “And… Not now, but when you’re ready. When you’ll feel strong enough. When you’ll realize you should give yourself more credit and believe more in your own strength. You’ll get back into your music, and you’ll be fucking _glorious _to watch. And I’ll be proud to say that once I was with Harry Styles in his Jacuzzi.”

Harry laughs. What Zayn said is fucking scary, because the thought of a future where he’ll still need an escort and his friends as crutches doesn’t feel great, and because Harry can’t even _imagine _being strong enough to get back into his music. But Harry laughs anyway, because he understands that Zayn probably believes in him more than he himself does, and it’s scary, yes, but also kinda refreshing.

Zayn laughs too. “I mean, I’m already proud to be with Harry Styles in his Jacuzzi,” he amends. “But I feel like I want you to be my dirty lil’ secret a while longer.”

Harry laughs some more, kisses Zayn stupid, and then nods. “Yeah. Yeah, Zayn. We can be each other’s dirty lil’ secret a while longer.”

Zayn grins, and the more they kiss, the harder they both get. When Harry’s ready, Zayn grabs a condom from the edge of the hot tub—again, Harry wonders how the fuck Zayn manages to make condoms appear from thin air—and rolls it on Harry. He doesn’t even struggle with them being in the water, and Harry shoves the realization about just how _skilled _with condoms Zayn is in the back of his mind.

“You, ah, you became ace at keeping secrets as well, didn’t ya, ah, Harry Styles,” Zayn pants, as he sinks on Harry’s cock.

Harry grunts when Zayn’s tight heat envelops him, and when Zayn’s fully seated, he grins up at him. “Yeah,” he assures, raising Zayn’s hips a bit and fucking up into him, hard. “Especially if they’re dirty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you're thinking :)
> 
> I am also on Tumblr as wont-you-stay-till-the-am.tumblr.com, come hit me up if you wanna talk.


	8. Forget for a while

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a slow spiral, and Zayn knows he can’t keep up with it for long.  
He dreads the moment in which everything will blow up in his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer: I don't know or own any of the characters present in this work. I only own the plot and any eventual original character.

Zayn sighs and huffs, crossing out Ethan Lowe’s name from his notebook where he keeps a list of his regular clients.

He’s the fourth regular he’s lost in a month. Zayn never lost any clients before Harry, but he can’t fucking blame Harry himself, because it’s not like he has anything to do with it.

It’s Zayn. It’s Zayn, not being able to ever tell Harry no even when Harry calls him with little to no heads up. Harry doesn’t know Zayn ditches other clients for him all the time. He shouldn’t know, it’s Zayn’s job to make sure his schedules don’t get fucked up. Harry can’t even imagine the thousand rows Zayn’s had with Dahlia.

The money they earn isn’t affected, because Harry pays a shitton of money for Zayn. The fact keeps Dahlia at bay, for now, but it also makes Zayn infinitely sad.

They’ve worked the boyfriend charade for a month, at all the parties, even just going out when Harry’s management called the paps to make sure Harry would be seen around.

They’ve gone out, held hands, spoken to people. They’ve fucked countless times in the safety of Harry’s penthouse.

None of it is real, and Zayn can’t stop wondering if it hurts Harry as much as it hurts him.

It’s become so fucking difficult, being with other clients. Zayn has started feeling disgusted with himself, feeling nauseous every time hands that are not Harry’s touch him. It’s bad for business and it’s bad for Zayn’s heart. Harry is another client, but the more Zayn tries to remind himself, the more he finds himself cancelling yet another appointment just because he’d rather go out with Harry.

It’s a slow spiral, and Zayn knows he can’t keep up with it for long.

He dreads the moment in which everything will blow up in his face.

But in the meantime, he enjoys the fake dates with Harry, and the small truths when they’re alone.

Dahlia calls him sometimes, asks him what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, tells him another client has cancelled his subscription because Zayn stood him up yet another time. Zayn keeps her at bay, reminds her of how much Harry Styles pays. She seems to always be placated in the end, but Zayn knows she won’t be for long.

Zayn is starting to slowly feel like he doesn’t want to do this job anymore, but he always pushes the thought back, forcibly removes it from his head every time it pops out, because he knows how that goes.

Those nights, when Harry falls asleep and Zayn looks at him, he feels like it would be so easy, _too _easy, to just call Dahlia and quit. When those nights happen, Zayn thinks about Ben, and how sure he was that quitting was the right decision so that they could be together, and how bad of a decision it turned out to be in the end.

Zayn knows Harry is nothing like Ben. But the truth of the matter doesn’t change, because Harry still doesn’t ask Zayn to quit, doesn’t bring up the subject of wanting Zayn _for real_, so Zayn can’t risk it, not even if Harry is fun and good and nice.

There’s a small part of Zayn that stubbornly says that Harry will never _ask _him to quit, because he probably thinks Zayn has to make that decision for himself.

Zayn never thinks about that either, because he’s too scared to make that decision, _especially _for himself.

While he wonders what the fuck he’s doing, though, he packs. He has a whole week with Harry starting today, and he’s not gonna waste a single moment of it. He’ll think about how bad he’s fucking up when they’ll get back to the UK.

+

_Ever Since New York by Harry Styles. Just this time, babe, please?_

Harry shakes his head when he reads the text, punctual and precise like a Swiss clock. “I wish I had the strength, babe, but no,” he tells his relentless, anonymous fan. “The second fastest request is Alex with _Rise Up _by Andra Day, so enjoy, Alex. You listened to _Rambles For Breakfast_. As I said, the show is sadly not gonna air for a week, so I’ll see you—well, talk to you—in a week. Have a wonderful rest of your day. Harry Styles out.”

Harry takes off the headphones from his head, and brushes his eyes with his fingers. He gets his own phone out, and before he realizes it, he has a text ready for _Texter at the radio._

_I’m so sorry I never grant your request. I really can’t. I hope you’ll forgive me one day, babe_.

Harry doesn’t send it, of course. He’s not mental. He grunts to himself and deletes the unsent text, cursing himself for the weakness he almost had towards a fucking stranger.

Working at the X-Factor _and _at the radio is taking its toll on Harry, if he’s honest. He feels so tired. They’ve gotten past the Six-Chair Challenge, and they’re about to start Judges’ Houses, which means it’s only gonna get worse.

But Harry is fine. Seeing the stage all lighted up with people on it, singing for him to judge them, hasn’t been as heart-wrenching and unbearable as Harry had dreaded. It feels sad, that he’ll never be up there again, but Harry manages. He even enjoys it. There have been a couple hard days when Simon himself had been worried all the fucking talent had gone from the UK, but right on cue, when they start to get desperate, someone _amazing _steps on the stage and gives them all the will to live again.

Judges’ Houses is gonna be fun, Harry’s sure. He’s excited to start it today.

He’s also excited that Zayn’s probably waiting for him outside the Capital FM building.

Harry hums and sighs to himself. Sometimes he wonders how Zayn manages to schedule all his appointments so perfectly that he always has time for Harry. They’ve been meeting like every other day for weeks, now. Jeff and Ant have expressed their desire to kill Harry more than once. Janine hasn’t, but Harry can read the homicidal wave in her kind eyes too.

She’s even talked to him once, in private, and quite bluntly told him that his money is not gonna grow back, and he needs to lay back, because Zayn’s fucking expensive and Jeff and Ant are about to have a fucking stroke. Harry luckily knows how to handle his own finances, so he’s told her not to worry, but the point isn’t wasting all his money. The point is that, no matter how much Zayn is nice and lovely, he’s _still _Harry’s escort.

Harry wishes he could just shake Zayn by the shoulders and _ask _him to quit. But he could never do that. Zayn needs to choose that for himself, and even if he did, Harry’s not sure Zayn would want to be with _him _of all people afterwards. Harry knows Zayn enjoys spending time with him. But he still can’t know how much of _that _is real, and how much is fake.

There’s a small part of Harry that stubbornly says that Zayn is pretty much always honest and always himself with Harry, because they do the small truths, and they’re never actually _small_, haven’t been since the night they talked about Ben and the drugs. But naked confessions in a Jacuzzi don’t count, if after that all they have is the fake dates to be papped on purpose, and holding hands at parties so that people can watch.

Nothing counts, if all Harry does with Zayn is included in a bill he receives the next day from the agency.

Harry and Zayn always meet at night, for the parties or the fake dates around town, before they can go back to Harry’s place and be themselves and talk about small truths.

Today, though, Harry booked Zayn for the whole day, and for the next week, 24/7. He kinda winced when he saw on the agency’s bill just how fucking _expensive _it’ll be, but he can’t be arsed to care about that now. He’s still filthy rich and he never goes out. His finances are safe, and if Zayn gets some of them, then good.

Harry has overthought about booking Zayn for the whole trip to the point of exhaustion, until it was too much, and he just decided to wing it and run the idea by Zayn himself.

“How would you feel about coming with me to Costa Rica for a week while I do Judges’ Houses?” he’d asked Zayn after having spent maybe two hours fucking on every surface of his terrace.

Zayn had widened his beautiful, honey eyes, and stuttered a little before replying. “Like, you wanna book me 24/7 for a week?”

“If you feel like it. If not, it’s okay.”

Zayn had accepted. Harry had worried about other clients maybe having already booked an appointment with Zayn during that week, but Zayn had told him not to worry about that, and that he and Dahlia could take care of it.

So now Harry goes out of Capital FM’s building, and finds Zayn standing outside of it, with a suitcase and his shades perched on top of his head as he chuckles and plays with his personal phone.

Harry can tell the two apart by now, even if he only has Zayn’s work number. His work phone is an iPhone, last model—he thinks Zayn secretly hates Apple but can’t say it ‘cause the agency or maybe a client bought it for him—while his personal phone is a Huawei, which Zayn surely loves because sometimes he waxes poetics about Huawei’s camera, processor, and things like that.

Zayn is chuckling as he types something on his Huawei and then pockets it after he sees Harry approaching him. “Hey, babe,” he says.

Harry smiles. “Hey. Ready to leave?”

“’T was a fucking nightmare to convince Niall you ain’t abducting me or summat,” Zayn rolls his eyes playfully. “And then another nightmare to make him stop being sulky for the fact that I’m going to Costa Rica without him.”

Harry grins. “Wanna bring him? We can make space for him,” he offers, and he kinda means it, if Zayn wants to have his friend’s company.

Zayn arches an eyebrow, and he wraps his arms around Harry’s neck. It’s unnecessary, there are no paps around, but Harry enjoys the affection and the physical contact anyway. “I am going _with you _to Costa Rica and it’s work for both of us, I reckon, but it’s also a vacation and I wanna spend it _with you_. That alright?”

Harry chuckles. “Yeah, babe. I’ve got loads of places to show you. And my chateau in that resort is fucking beautiful, you’ll love it.”

“More than your penthouse?”

“Yep,” Harry assures. “My penthouse’s cool, but I don’t have a beach and the ocean right in front of it.”

Zayn has never been on a plane. Harry understands it quite surely, from the way he seems to be a bit confused at security control and then boarding, and he gets confirmation by the time they’re finally sitting in the aircraft, and Zayn’s already clutching at the armrests and looking frantically outside the window even though they’re still not moving in the slightest.

Harry smiles, and he gently covers one of Zayn’s hands with his own, leaning to speak into his ear. “Zayn? You’ve never flown before, have you?”

Zayn shakes his head, gulping down some air and then nervously licking his lips. “No. I’m sorry. I should have told you. I felt stupid, to admit I’ve never taken a fucking plane. It’s lame. I’m sorry.”

Harry shakes his head too, chuckling. “Zayn, why the fuck would you think that I’d care about that and I’d think you’re _lame_? Jesus, you know me better than that. I don’t care. I’m actually quite proud to be the one popping your flight cherry.”

It gets a laugh out of Zayn, at least, and Harry doesn’t let his hand go when the plane whirs to life and they start take-off. Zayn goes a bit green when he looks at the flight attendants showing all the procedures to observe in an emergency landing. “It’s fine. We’re gonna be just fine, okay?” he whispers to Zayn. “They have to show you this. But we won’t have any accident. I promise.”

Absurdly, Harry’s word is enough for Zayn, because he nods, and his eyes go a bit less wide in his face.

Zayn still grips Harry’s fingers in an almost painful grasp when the plane actually takes off, but after a while, he seems to relax completely.

Harry enjoys the amazement on Zayn’s face more than he actually should, as he looks at the sky out of the window and gapes a little.

The resort in Costa Rica is called _Nayara Springs_ and it’s Harry’s favourite place on Earth. Harry owns one of the chateaux in the resort, even though he hasn’t gone there in two years. There’s literally nothing but sand and ocean around the small but quite fancy house; it’s made of shiny wood, and the walls are almost entirely made of glass and windows. There’s only one room, in the middle of which there’s a king-sized bed, with no kitchen because when you’re there you either eat at one of the ten restaurants of the resort or you just _don’t _eat, apparently, and the bathroom is very small, but Harry doesn’t mind.

A set of steps lead outside the open space of the room, to a small porch made of twigs where a little coffee table and two armchairs are set, and next to them, still under the porch and with plants surrounding it, there’s a built-in hot tub in the floor.

Trees and bushes grow around the house, providing shadow in the hottest hours of the day, and a gentle breeze sifts through the windows making the thin, white curtains flutter.

Everything is open and bathed in light, and it would be a huge privacy hazard if the chateau wasn’t so far away from anything. There are other chateaux in the resort, but they’re really too far to be a problem. There’s a big terrace, a pool and a pool house attached to the back of the chateau, and that’s where Harry will have his Judges’ Houses sessions with the six contestants he chose during the chair challenge.

The contestants are staying at the resort as well, Harry made sure they got nice rooms in the ‘normal’ hotel of the complex, and they’re gonna be driven by a shuttle from there to Harry’s chateau the next day. Louis—Harry’s chosen help for Judges’ Houses, if there was any doubt about that—is scheduled to arrive in the morning.

For now, Harry has got literally nothing to do for the rest of the day except enjoy the abashed expression on Zayn’s face as they finally arrive in the house and he looks around. “Oh, fuck,” he mutters. “This is, like, so fucking beautiful, Harry. I thought this kind of houses only existed in movies. This is _yours_?”

Harry chuckles. “Yeah. I should re-sell it to the resort, though. I never come here anymore.”

Zayn doesn’t answer. He leaves his suitcase next to the bed, and keeps looking around, running his hands over the fluttering white curtains, taking in the windows so big they look like whole walls, staring outside towards the beach, the ocean, and the trees all around.

“And you took _me _here,” Zayn murmurs at last. “Why?” he adds, facing Harry. He doesn’t look _angry_, exactly, but he doesn’t look happy either. He looks suspicious, Harry realizes with a sad pang of his heart.

He sighs. “Because it would be extremely weird for me to have a week of vacation—masked as work, yes, but still a vacation—without bringing my boyfriend,” Harry says honestly. “And because you never fucking complain about all the lame shit I make you do when we have to go out and ‘be seen’, so I thought it would be nice for you to do something different and have a sort-of vacation as well.”

Zayn blinks a couple times, and then sighs a smile, shaking his head. “Sorry, babe. It’s just, like, you paid a lot of money to have me for a whole week. It’s just a little crazy to me, that you wanted me to join you so much that you went to such great lengths.”

Harry chuckles, and he knows it’s a bit bitter, but he can’t fucking help it. _If it was for me, I’d just book you for the rest of eternity_, he doesn’t say out loud. “It’s still a small price to pay, to have your company while I’m forced to have a vacation,” he says instead.

Zayn grins, and slowly approaches Harry by the still empty hot tub, wrapping his arms around Harry’s middle. “Louis was gonna keep you company anyway,” he points out.

Harry arches an eyebrow.

Zayn laughs. “But then again, it’s not like you can fuck Louis. Or well, you could. But you can’t, ‘cause he’s taken.”

Harry’s stomach flips. “I didn’t bring you just ‘cause I need to fuck,” he says, harshly, and trying to put some distance between himself and Zayn, because _what the fuck?_

Zayn gapes and then snaps his mouth shut, shaking his head repeatedly with his eyes wide open, and tightening his grip around Harry’s middle so that Harry can’t escape. “No, babe, I didn’t mean it like that! Fuck,” he mutters. “I just meant that, like, I’m your ‘boyfriend’, so you needed to bring me as well, and not just Louis, you know. I’m sorry, babe, I didn’t mean, I swear…”

_You didn’t mean it, and yet that’s exactly what we’re supposed to do. You’re my escort, I’m your client. We should just fuck and lie_. “I brought you because I thought it would be nice for you as well,” Harry says flatly, and manages to smile quite credibly, if he says so himself. Then, the dismayed expression on Zayn’s face makes him cave in, and he chuckles, knocking their foreheads together. “Sorry, babe. I’m just a little tired ‘s all. I get all stroppy when I fly so many hours, it’s the jetlag, I hate it. I’m gonna take a shower, yeah? And then we can go to the beach, have a nice walk in the sunset and everything.”

Zayn’s mouth curves in a sad tilt, but he nods and lets Harry go.

Harry doesn’t bother getting anything from his suitcase, because he knows the bathroom will be stocked with fresh towels and full bottles of shower gel and shampoo, so he just strides for the door and gets inside, sighing.

He’s stupid. He paid a fuckton of money to have Zayn there, and now he’s recriminating Zayn being there with Harry for _work _when it’s _literally _the only reason he’s there. _He’s here because you _booked _him, for fuck’s sake. Deal with it._

He only has time to get naked, and then before he can even get the shower going, the door opens slowly, and Zayn is there, with a tentative smile on his face. Harry doesn’t speak when Zayn gets closer and grabs him gently by the shoulders, to kiss him. “I’m sorry,” Zayn murmurs. “I didn’t mean to make you stroppy. Are you angry at me?”

Harry rolls his eyes, because there’s probably nothing that could make him be really angry at Zayn, at this point. “Of course not. You were just telling the truth. But sometimes I don’t particularly wanna hear it,” he replies honestly.

Zayn blinks. He doesn’t comment on that, but he kisses Harry again, harder but slower this time, and then smiles. “I understand. Sometimes I don’t wanna hear it either. Can we forget about it for a while?” he asks, and his voice is so small and quiet that Harry can’t find it in his heart to throw another strop about _how the fuck can we forget about it if everything is fake?_

The small truths, they can do. It’s true that they’re still an escort and a client. But Zayn is there, honestly shocked that Harry would bring him just because it would be nice, and he’s honestly asking Harry to forget about it for a while. So Harry nods, and kisses Zayn back, harder, his hands digging in his hips even though he’s naked and Zayn’s still completely clothed.

Zayn smiles. “Okay, cool. Because I might have pushed random buttons in the hot tub and I managed to fill it with hot water and some kind of pineapple soap and now it’s all bubbly and ready to be used.”

Harry, despite himself, snorts a laugh. “The pineapple thing is shampoo, Zayn. They let me personally choose all my favourite shampoos and shower gels in this chateau.”

Zayn winces. “Oh. That’s why it came from the tall faucet on the side and not from the dispensers on the edges of the tub?”

“Yep,” Harry laughs.

“Sorry.”

“’S alright, babe. I like pineapples for the rest of my body just as I like ‘em for my hair.”

Zayn grins as he slowly starts to pull Harry out of the bathroom and in the open space again. “I’d say that we’re gonna smell like fucking Costa Rica afterwards, but we _are _in Costa Rica, so…”

Harry laughs again, and cradles the back of Zayn’s head with his hand, bringing him into another kiss when they stop by the hot tub. “Shut up, babe,” he whispers on Zayn’s lips.

Zayn laughs.

_We can forget for a while, I reckon_, Harry tells himself as they kiss and get rid of Zayn’s clothes while the early afternoon sun filters through the curtains.

They’re both naked and snogging in silence, neither of them finally moving to get inside the hot tub, when one of Zayn’s phones goes off with a call. Zayn grunts a frustrated sigh, but keeps kissing Harry, the insistent ringtone echoing through the room.

“Ain’t you gonna answer?” Harry asks, whispers it on Zayn’s lips as they kiss.

Zayn sighs again, his mouth still latched to Harry’s like he isn’t able to let it go, not even to answer the question. “’S my Mum,” he says at last, licking at Harry’s cupid’s bow.

Harry stops the kiss immediately, and pulls back so that Zayn will have to stop as well. “Go answer your Mum’s call, babe.”

Zayn shakes his head and sighs. “I’ll call her back, I promise,” he whispers, trying to go for Harry’s lips again.

Harry tuts with a chuckle, and avoids Zayn’s mouth. It takes quite a lot of strength if he’s honest. “It’s your mother. Answer, babe.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, mutters a curse and then retrieves his personal phone from his discarded jeans. “Mum?” he says into the receiver, sitting on the bed, stark naked. “Yeah, I’m alright. I didn’t call you ‘cause I literally just got to the hotel. Yeah, they’re all fine. They’re showering. Hotel’s beautiful. Yeah, I’ll send you pics. You okay? Yeah, plane was not that bad,” he looks at Harry and grins a little before averting his eyes again. “I have a meeting in a while and I still gotta shower. Talk to you later? Yeah Mum. I love you too.”

Harry frowns at him when Zayn hangs up, but he already understands what’s going on, even before Zayn stutters a little and blushes. “My Mum, she, um, she doesn’t know what I do. She thinks I work in an architect’s office. I told her I was going to Costa Rica for a project with my boss and our team. Sorry,” he murmurs, eyes on the floor.

It makes Harry’s heart constrict a little, that Zayn has had to lie to his family for five years now. But Harry understands, because he’s lied to his own family about his choices too, for a long time, so he doesn’t find it in his heart to blame Zayn’s little dishonesty. He smiles, and crosses the room to kneel in front of Zayn and look up at him in the eyes. “Zayn? Why are you apologizing?”

Zayn sighs. “Because sometimes I wish I could tell her I’m with you. She’d like you loads. And because I’m sorry that I had to tell her that I’m here with other people when the truth is that I’m here with you, and I love it. Even if it’s work.”

Harry sighs too, and he stands up, making Zayn stand up as well and then kissing him for the umpteenth time. “Zayn. Please, stop saying the word ‘work’ for a while? You said we should forget about it for a while, yeah?”

Zayn nods.

“And I’m sorry you feel like you have to lie to your mother about what you do,” Harry adds, hoping to get his point across. “Because if this is what you wanna do, if you’re still choosing it, there’s nothing you should be ashamed of. But I understand anyway.”

Zayn chuckles, and catches Harry’s lips with his own. “You understand, but sometimes I myself don’t,” he mutters.

Harry doesn’t ask him what he means, because for a small, absurd moment, he thinks Zayn means his job, means that he doesn’t know why he does it anymore. But Harry can’t ask about that, because it’s Zayn’s choice to say it, and Harry won’t push him, not on this.

Zayn must understand there are many things Harry would like to say, but can’t, because he looks at Harry in the eyes for a moment, and then smiles, leaning forward for another kiss. “Can we just enjoy the fact that I don’t have to say goodbye to you the next morning for a week? Please?”

Harry smiles, and nods. “Yeah. We can do that.”

+

Zayn has never given anyone a wake-up blowjob of his own free will. He reckons it’s a great way to wake up, having a warm, wet mouth wrapped around you, but when you think about the other way round, try and find him someone who will tell him that it’s amazing to stuff your mouth with a dick first thing in the morning.

That morning, though, when he wakes up at seven because his body is apparently calibrated on Harry’s radio show even though he knows it’s not gonna air for the week, and he sees Harry sleeping next to him, Zayn thinks he’ll die if he doesn’t get his mouth on Harry’s cock _right now_.

So he does. He slowly crawls under the thin sheets, pulling them back just enough to look his fill at Harry sleeping on his back with the early sun filtering through the transparent curtains and bathing him in golds, and then Zayn settles in between Harry’s legs, slowly grabbing Harry’s cock and swallowing it whole, even if it’s still soft. It takes him no time to make him rock-hard, and Harry hasn’t even woken up yet.

Harry gives a small grunt and shifts, still asleep, when Zayn starts swirling his tongue around the head. He keeps his eyes on Harry, because he wants to _watch _the moment Harry finally comes to and realizes what’s happening. The feeling of Harry’s dick in his mouth is the best thing in the world in that moment, and he’s sure that it’s entirely because it’s Harry. Zayn can’t imagine enjoying giving head so much to anyone else.

Harry’s lips part, and a frown grows in between his eyebrows as one of his big hands tightens around the sheets underneath him. Zayn smirks, and pushes his mouth further down Harry’s dick, until his nose is hitting Harry’s pubes. Zayn inhales the scent, because he honestly thinks he’ll never get tired of it. He chuckles when he also smells pineapples.

The noise and the breath Zayn releases through his nose wake Harry up. Zayn watches.

Harry blinks, twice, releasing a breath of his own as his green eyes widen and he stares at the ceiling for a moment. Then, he realizes what he’s feeling, probably, and tilts his head downwards, meeting Zayn’s eyes. Harry looks straight out of a fucking photoshoot, naked and surrounded by white curtains fluttering around the bed, with sunlight filtering inside and trapped in between his loose curls.

“Fuck,” he says, his voice groggy with sleep.

Zayn chuckles again, and doesn’t reply. He just bobs his head, not interrupting their eye contact.

Harry groans, his hands tightly fisting the sheets now, and his beautiful mouth agape, and to Zayn it looks a bit like the pleasure after having just woken up is a lot, and a bit like he can’t fucking believe Zayn would do that. _As if there’s anything I would like more than doing this until the day I fucking die_, Zayn thinks, but doesn’t say, and it’s not because his mouth is occupied at the moment.

Zayn swallows audibly around Harry’s dick. Harry is still looking at him in the eyes, and he groans louder than before, one of his hands going for Zayn’s head. He just rests it there, not grabbing his hair and not pushing. “Fuck, Zayn, I wish you could see yourself right now,” he murmurs, barely intelligible.

Zayn releases him from his mouth, slowly and wetly, making sure to leave a shiny trail of spit in the wake of his lips. “I’m sure what _I _am seeing is a thousand times better,” he replies, honestly.

Harry pants, chuckles, and pants some more.

Zayn decides that he woke Harry up enough, so he crawls over Harry’s lap on all fours, reaching for the bedside table and grabbing a condom, taking no time to rip the foil open and roll it on Harry’s hard cock.

He doesn’t need any prep, they fucked three times in a row less than five hours earlier, so he just lubes Harry’s dick up, and then lines it up with his own hole, but he doesn’t move to take it in, because he knows Harry, and he knows Harry loves being the one to push inside.

Zayn looks down at Harry with a mute question in his eyes, but Harry just heaves a shaky breath and settles his hands on Zayn’s waist. “Yeah, babe, sit on it, come on,” Harry groans. “I wanna watch it.”

Zayn chuckles. “Then watch me, babe,” he agrees, and puts all his weight on his own calves so that he can start to sink on Harry’s dick slowly, so slowly, as slowly as he possibly can, so that Harry can _watch_.

Harry does watch. His eyes trail from Zayn’s face to his chest and to the point where Zayn is taking him in, and Zayn can feel him shake underneath him, like it’s taking all his restraint not to fuck up into Zayn in that moment.

Zayn smirks, and goes even slower, until he’s fully seated on Harry, and Harry releases a breath he’s been holding for who knows how long.

It’s not true, that the feeling of Harry’s dick in his mouth is the best in the world. And it’s not even Harry’s dick _in him_. In that moment, Zayn thinks that the real best feeling in the world is sitting on Harry’s lap while Harry stares at him, both of them bathed in the early sunlight, with Harry’s hands protectively set on Zayn’s waist like he wants nothing more than to keep him there with him.

Zayn props his hands on Harry’s chest, and rolls his hips once. Harry groans, his eyelids fluttering as his head falls back on the pillows, a halo of curls splayed on the fabric.

“You’re beautiful,” Zayn says. He didn’t plan on saying it out loud, but now it’s said, like a thousand other things they’ve told each other, masked as small truths or small lies, when in reality they’re anything but small.

Harry smiles. It’s bright, and it’s so rare, these days, that those dimples show up, but Zayn takes pride in the fact that they always do when they’re alone. He pokes one of them with his pointer finger, and Harry giggles, he honest-to-God _giggles_. It’s frankly quite overwhelming to watch, and the only thing Zayn can do is rest his hand against Harry’s cheek, and lean down to kiss him as he rocks his hips again.

Harry’s mouth opens as he groans again, and his hands tighten on Zayn’s waist, starting to push him up and down more forcefully. “Yeah, babe,” Zayn murmurs, because he can’t help it. “Fuck me, Harry. Make a mess of me. So much that, ah, it’ll be the only thing you’ll be able to think about, ah, when those people sing for you today.”

Harry’s eyes shoot wide open, and the next moment he’s sitting up, an arm slung around Zayn’s waist to engulf it completely, and then he’s guiding Zayn’s whole body up and down, hard, so hard Zayn feels like Harry’s never been that deep inside him, and he wishes they could never stop. “There wouldn’t be any difference with a normal day, then,” Harry comments, his voice all fucked up.

Zayn doesn’t ask what he means, because it feels too close to a big, unbearably big truth.

Instead, he moans and braces his hands on Harry’s shoulders as Harry fucks Zayn’s body up and down his dick while at the same time fucking up into him, hard, so hard he hits Zayn’s spot dead-on and Zayn’s already coming, with no warning, the orgasm pulled out of his body like someone’s tugging a rope in his stomach. His vision goes white, and he shudders bodily on top of Harry, whimpering and coming and coming.

“Fuck,” Harry murmurs, like he’s in awe or something.

When Zayn comes down from it, he sees Harry looking at him, his green eyes wide in his face, and he chuckles. “You just made me have a full-body orgasm. ‘S not the first time. You know, the usual with you,” he comments.

Harry chuckles too. “It’s the first time I’m watching you have one while riding me, in the morning, under the sun, knowing that you’re not going away in an hour or so,” he replies.

It’s true, Zayn knows. And the feeling of _this_ not being about to be over, the knowledge that they’re staying there for a week, alone and naked and raw, is more intoxicating than any orgasm Harry will ever give him.

They don’t speak anymore after that. Harry grunts a curse and keeps helping Zayn ride him hard and deep, and after a while, when Harry comes, Zayn comes a second time, and it feels so good it’s almost painful.

Harry watches.

Zayn watches too.

Because in a life of lies, contracts and fake relationships, _this _is true. The way they hold onto each other, the way Harry stares at Zayn like he can’t fucking believe this, and the way Zayn looks at Harry and sees someone who maybe, _maybe_, wants him for himself.

They can’t speak about it, but when they’re naked and honest, it’s all that matters anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end nears! I'm loving all the reviews, keep letting me know what you're thinking :)
> 
> I am also on Tumblr as wont-you-stay-till-the-am.tumblr.com, come hit me up if you wanna talk.


	9. When you're ready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Harry, I think this… thing with Zayn is getting a little bit out of your control, if I can be honest with you,” Louis says.  
“I know. But this is the only way I can have him, Lou, so I’m gonna take it. Until he decides he wants more. If he ever does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer: I don't know or own any of the characters present in this work. I only own the plot and any eventual original character.

“So now you’re playing house with him and leaving him at home to wait for you like a good little wife or summat.”

Louis is arching his eyebrow at Harry and addressing the matter as soon as the third and last day of Judges’ Houses is over, and the cameras stop rolling.

Harry sighs. “No!” he exclaims. “I mean. Yeah, he’s waiting for me, like, _right there_, so it’d be nice if you didn’t speak so loud. But we’re not playing house or whatever it is you said. We’re…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, because he honestly doesn’t know what he’s doing with Zayn. Harry only knows they’re having a great time, and Zayn is loving being there in Costa Rica even though he’s kinda scared of the open ocean and Harry hasn’t managed to convince him to take a swim in it yet.

Louis sighs too. “Harry, I think this… _thing _with Zayn is getting a little bit out of your control, if I can be honest with you.”

“I know,” Harry replies, because there’s no point in denying it, especially with Louis. “I know. But this is the only way I can have him, Lou, so I’m gonna take it. Until he decides he wants more. If he ever does.”

They both eye Harry’s chateau from where they’re sitting on a couch by the pool, but Zayn can’t be seen from there. It’s almost sunset, and he’s probably taking a nap or reading. Harry has found out Zayn reads a lot.

Louis stands up as Harry does the same, and envelops Harry in a hug. “I don’t want you to be hurt, Hazza,” he murmurs in Harry’s shoulder. “And I’m worried that it’s too late to avoid it.”

Harry sighs, because he knows it is. “I’m fine,” he says nonetheless. “See you in a couple hours for dinner?”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll go take a shower and I’ll meet you at the restaurant, yeah?”

Harry nods, and they part ways. Harry takes his time to cross the terrace in front of the pool on his way back. He knows Louis is right, and what he’s doing with Zayn is dangerous for both of them. But it’s not like Harry can help it. The thought of calling it off and never seeing Zayn again is almost unbearable.

When he gets back to the house, Harry halts on the steps by the hot tub. Zayn is lying down on his back on the bed, a sketchpad rested on his chest, and he’s looking at the ceiling, tracing imaginary lines in the air with a pencil, only to then chuckle and bring the pencil to the paper. There’s some kind of drawing on it, Harry thinks as he silently approaches Zayn.

When he’s close enough, he sees that it’s unequivocally a structure plan of the chateau, full of perspective lines and numbers and graphs in the corners.

Zayn realizes Harry’s staring, and he jumps a little, immediately lowering the sketchpad and blushing. “Hey. Didn’t hear you coming back,” he says, clearing his throat. He doesn’t stand up from the bed.

Harry sighs and sits down next to him, slowly sliding down until they’re laying with their heads joined on the mattress. “I don’t understand shit about architecture, but that looks really good,” he tells Zayn, carefully, gesturing to the sketchpad now resting face-down on the sheets.

Zayn clears his throat. “’S nothing. I just wanted to see if I could understand how they made this house. It’s stupid, I was just bored I guess,” he mutters.

Harry turns on his side and rests his head on his own hand, staring at Zayn while Zayn keeps his eyes on the ceiling. “Do you miss it?” he just asks.

Zayn takes a breath, and then nods. “Sometimes,” he says quietly. “Not always. But sometimes. Like, Niall will come home with a project and I’ll take a look at it and then I’ll miss working on those things, you know, making a project, building a house on paper, creating the spaces from thin air. But it’s stupid. It’s not what I do. Not anymore.”

“It could be, though. If you wanted it.”

Zayn shakes his head. “Nah, babe. Even if I wanted it. I stopped five years ago, never even finished school. There would be no point. Maybe I’m not even good at it anymore.”

Zayn’s tone is so demised that it makes Harry’s heart constrict, and he slowly lays down next to Zayn again, looking at the ceiling as well. “Not now,” Harry says carefully. “Not now, but when you’re ready. When you’re strong enough. Maybe you can get back into it. When you’ll give yourself enough credit and you’ll figure out that _this _is not the only thing you’re good at,” he adds, gesturing to the space between them, and knowing Zayn will understand he means the whole escort thing.

Zayn chuckles bitterly. “You don’t know if I’m good at anything else.”

“Yeah, I don’t. But _you _know yourself. And I’m sure you know what you’re good at.”

“Sometimes when I look at you I think that I’m not even good at being an escort anymore,” Zayn says in a whisper.

When Harry turns his head, he realizes Zayn’s not looking at the ceiling anymore. He’s looking at Harry, right in the eyes. “When you look at me?”

Zayn nods. “Yeah. Because you’re a client, Harry, but let’s be honest. I enjoy being with you just as much as you enjoy being with me. And this shouldn’t happen.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say. It’s almost a confession, _almost_. Before he can reply, though, Zayn shakes his head and speaks again. “I don’t think I’m ready to open this conversation right now. Sorry for whatever I said. Let’s pretend the last five minutes never happened, yeah?”

Harry doesn’t want to. He wants to crawl on top of Zayn and shake him by the shoulders, ask him what he meant, ask him to quit, ask him to go complete his architecture studies because _that’s _what Zayn really wants to do, he misses it, and he should _do _it.

But if Harry said those things, he would be the biggest hypocrite in the world, wouldn’t he? Because he also misses something dearly, something he could get back into in a second if he really had the guts, and yet he doesn’t get back into it, keeps it away and hidden, because he’s not ready yet.

So Harry doesn’t say anything, and he just settles his head on Zayn’s shoulder, sighing. “As I said. Not now. When you’re ready. When we both are.”

He feels Zayn nod. “Harry?”

Harry hums.

“Tell me a small truth of yours?”

Harry takes a breath. “I wish we could both be a bit less scared about our own lives.”

Zayn chuckles. “That’s a wish.”

“It’s also a truth.”

“I was thinking about being scared as well, while you were doing your X-Factor thing,” Zayn admits, his hands going to card in between Harry’s curls on his shoulder. “I peeked a little through the window to listen, sorry. That girl, Myriam. She was scared, and you calmed her down. And I thought I’d ask your help tonight, to overcome a little fear of mine.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wanna take a swim in the ocean tonight,” Zayn says, his voice shaking a little. “After dinner. I’m sick of being scared all the time. But, like, you have to promise that you’ll stay with me all the fucking time, holding me with my head above the water, otherwise I’m gonna fucking _flip _and die and then Dahlia will kill _you _when she realizes I died on your watch. Also, my fee is non-refundable, not even if I die, I’m afraid.”

Despite it all, Harry laughs. He props himself up a little bit, hovering with his face over Zayn’s, and he can’t really help it when the need to kiss Zayn is too strong to be ignored. So he kisses Zayn, both of them still with a laugh on their lips. “Okay. I promise I’ll keep you safe from the big scary ocean,” he agrees easily, and then realizes just how much this means for Zayn, this small step towards overcoming his fears, because he can see the dread and anticipation in his eyes. So he decides to repay him with the same coin. “Do you wanna help me with a little fear of mine as well?”

Zayn nods. “If you want to. Yeah.”

It takes a lot for Harry to put the words together, and he immediately understands exactly how Zayn feels. “I wrote a new song,” he tells Zayn. “I wanna sing it. Will you listen?”

Zayn gapes. He gapes for such a long time that Harry almost laughs in his face, because he looks like a beautiful, honey-eyed fish. But then, he closes his mouth and smiles, sliding both his hands through the hair on the back of Harry’s head and bringing him closer. “Okay. I’ll listen. Of course I will,” Zayn says at last, before kissing Harry into oblivion.

+

Zayn has been in _Nayara Springs_ with Harry for four days already, and he’s still quite shocked that Harry decided to bring _him _of all people there.

They have dinner with Louis in one of the ten—_ten_—restaurants scattered along the perimeter of the small town they call resort, and Louis is great fun as usual. Zayn thinks he’s clearly worried about Harry, too, and part of him knows that he’s also involved in those worries of Louis’s, but he can’t bring himself to go down that road, because his mood is already deteriorating enough.

Dahlia has been trying to call him for two days now, and he’s ditched all her calls, texting her that he’s working 24/7 and he can’t fucking answer his phone. Dahlia has answered with a couple texts about them having to talk about his future schedule and new clients, but Zayn hasn’t replied to any of those, and just told Dahlia that they’ll speak when he gets back to the UK.

Zayn thinks that he’s gotten to a point where it kinda kills him, that he’s there with Harry as a _job_. He wishes so much that he could just say a big _fuck it _to everything and be with Harry like two normal people. But Zayn is too scared to do that, too scared it’ll be like with Ben, too scared that he’s gonna do it for _someone else _and not for himself and then he’ll be left with nothing.

Harry never asks, and Zayn still doesn’t know if it’s because he doesn’t particularly care, or because he’s waiting for Zayn to have some sort of realization. It’s honestly probably the latter, because Zayn’s stomach and heart have constricted enough while Harry carefully told him that he could get back into architecture if he wanted to, but one thing is talking about just getting another job, and another entirely is talking about what _they are_. They never talk about _that_.

After dinner, they say goodnight to Louis and head back to Harry’s house. Zayn is still fucking doing this, a small leap of faith for a small fear, and he’s jittery and a bit nervous as he and Harry get their swim trunks from their suitcases and wear them. Then, Zayn’s brain flips a little when he sees Harry get his notebook and his guitar—his _real guitar_, Zayn knows it, Zayn has all the fucking stickers on it impressed in his mind like they’re branded behind his eyelids—and brings those with him as well.

They get out of the house and walk in silence on the still warm sand. _It’s happening. I’m getting into the fucking ocean. And then Harry Styles is gonna sing me a brand new fucking song. What has my life just become?_, he wonders with half a giggle and half a curse on his lips.

Harry doesn’t understand the extent of Zayn’s internal monologue, because he just wraps an arm around his waist. “Don’t worry, it’s okay, it’s perfectly safe and I’ll keep your head above water, I swear.”

Zayn chuckles. “In hindsight, this whole ‘overcoming little fears’ thing was a shit idea.”

“No, it’s a great idea, and there’s no turning back now,” Harry declares with a laugh, tightening his grip on Zayn’s waist like he’s afraid Zayn will just leg it.

The small patch of sand in front of Harry’s house is private to the owner of the chateau, so Zayn has never seen anyone except themselves there, not even in daylight. Now that it’s night, it looks a bit eerie and a bit suggestive at the same time. There are torches all around, lighting the way for them, and their light is so bright they’re even illuminating the water, which otherwise would be pitch black, Zayn knows.

“Ah, fuck,” Zayn mutters.

Harry seems undeterred, and he places their towels on a sunbed and his guitar and notebook on another. They’ve brought the two sunbeds there from the house on their second day, because Zayn might have been opposed to swimming with Harry until tonight, but he was not opposed to sunbathing with him.

“Ready?” Harry asks, eagerly.

“What if there’s a sea urchin or summat?” Zayn asks.

Harry rolls his eyes, which Zayn can clearly see in the light of the torches all around. “The beach along the resort is taken care of. There are teams getting rid of all the dangerous things you’re thinking about.”

Zayn sighs. “I think _you _are the most dangerous thing around in this moment. I don’t like your impatience, Harry Styles.”

Harry grins, and steps a bit into Zayn’s personal space, speaking with their lips so close they brush every time he moves his. “I’ve always been an impatient man, Zayn Malik,” he whispers.

And well, it’s not like Zayn could ever actually _resist _Harry’s lips being so close to his own. So he leans forward and kisses Harry, dirtily, hoping that it’ll give him more time to postpone his encounter with the fucking ocean.

Only after a while does he realize that it’s biting him in the arse, because he gets too distracted by Harry’s mouth, and Harry uses it to start gently pulling Zayn with him towards the shore. Zayn only notices when his feet are in the water.

Harry gasps theatrically. “I don’t know how we got here!”

Zayn arches an eyebrow. “You’re such a twat, I swear.”

Harry grins. “Oh well. Now that we’re here, we can start.”

Zayn gulps down some air, and he grabs Harry’s hand, tightly. Harry stops being a shithead right that second, and he just holds Zayn’s hand. “I was just joking. We do this in your own time. I don’t want you to be scared with me, Zayn,” he says seriously.

Zayn chuckles. “Let’s go,” he says, sighing.

They walk.

The water is a bit cold, and Zayn kinda wishes he had this stupid idea during daylight, when he could have controlled his surroundings better. But what’s done is done now, so he keeps walking without loosening his tight grip on Harry’s hand, and the sand is smooth under his feet, and the water is calm.

They don’t go far. Harry stops walking when the water level still only reaches a bit below their pecs. “I think it’s enough for a first time,” he declares.

They’re a bit far from the torches on the shore, but the lights still kinda reverberate on the surface of the ocean and on Harry’s face, so Zayn can clearly see the small smile quirking up Harry’s mouth, and the shadow of his dimples, and the plains and valleys of the muscles on his torso are outlined like a chiaroscuro painting.

Zayn nods and takes a breath. Then, he dips down, until his head is underwater.

Zayn has never been underwater like this, not even once in his whole life. He’s gone to pools and even the beach a couple times, and he’s been in the water. But nobody ever convinced him to duck down and let the water cover his head.

Harry didn’t convince him either, is the thing. Zayn proposed that they go to the ocean. And _Zayn _decided to go underwater. He stays there holding his breath for a handful of seconds, only being able to hear the hammering of his heart there where every other sound is dulled, and then he emerges, gasping for air even if he doesn’t feel like he’s running out of oxygen.

It’s weird, to have his hair so soaked and plastered to his face, water trickling in his eyes and mouth. It’s like when you shower, of course, but the water is cold and salty, and _I just fucking went underwater in the ocean and I let go of Harry’s hand_.

It’s true. Harry’s still very close to him, but Zayn has let go of his hand when he dipped down, and it’s kinda scary now, but it wasn’t scary when he did it. He didn’t even realize it.

Harry chuckles, and then brushes his hands on Zayn’s face, combing his hair away from his eyes and forehead. He never stops touching Zayn, like he knows Zayn just realized he let go, and now needs to be reassured that Harry’s still there holding him with his head above water.

Zayn doesn’t need it, though. Because he willingly went with his head _under _water, and maybe it’s stupid, to see this small thing as a metaphor, but maybe it isn’t. Maybe if Zayn took this small, stupid decision for himself, he will be able to take other decisions. _Not now. But when you’re ready. When you’re strong enough_, he told Harry when they spoke about the drugs, and then Harry told him earlier when they spoke about Zayn missing architecture.

“I did it,” Zayn announces, his breath a bit ragged.

Harry smiles and sighs. “You did it,” he confirms. “I wouldn’t exactly call this ‘a swim’, but it’s not like I can teach you how to swim in the middle of the ocean at night anyway. And properly swimming wasn’t the point.”

Zayn chuckles, and nods. “It was very scary, I won’t lie.”

Harry smiles again, and gets even closer to Zayn, their chests touching. “But you did it,” he says quietly, gently grabbing Zayn’s chin between his thumb and index. “You did it, and you did it with your chin up, as you do everything.”

It’s also true, Zayn realizes. His chin is tilted upwards, and maybe it’s just because Harry has a couple inches on him and Zayn _has _to tilt his head to look at him when they’re so close, but maybe it’s also another stupid metaphor. Zayn doesn’t exactly know what to say, so he just closes the distance between their mouths, and kisses Harry.

He planned on a small peck on the lips, but as soon as they collide, both of them are already opening their mouths and letting their tongues slide against each other. Zayn releases a breath he didn’t even know he was still holding, and Harry sighs heavily, sucking on Zayn’s bottom lip so hard Zayn feels it throb and swell. Their teeth clack, and the kiss tastes like salt. Harry’s body is absurdly warm when Zayn wraps his arms around his shoulders, and Zayn knows that it’s because he got sunburnt the day before, so he tries to loosen his grip not to hurt him.

But Harry doesn’t seem to mind. He murmurs something Zayn can’t catch, and then hooks his fingers under the back of Zayn’s thighs, until Zayn takes the hint and jumps a little, locking his legs around Harry’s waist while Harry keeps him up and starts walking back to the shore.

+

The torches illuminate everything better on the shore when they reach it. Harry’s still holding Zayn up, and it takes quite the effort to let go of him and put him down. Zayn seems to hate the idea of their kiss being interrupted just as much, if his pout and the way he tries to follow Harry’s lips with his own is any indication, but Harry chuckles and grabs one of the towels, draping it around both their shoulders and tying them together under the soft material.

Zayn chuckles, going for another kiss as they stay there, standing in front of each other and wrapped in a single towel. Harry chuckles too, and it feels too much like it’s real, too much like it’s _not _work, too much like Zayn wants this. Harry decides not to dwell on that, and knocks their foreheads together.

Harry’s hair is only wet at the tips, but Zayn’s is drenched, so Harry lifts the hem of the towel and covers Zayn’s head with it, massaging his scalp to get most of the water out. Zayn laughs when his face gets covered in the process as well, and peeks out from under it, eyes sparkling.

His eyelashes are so fucking long, Harry thinks. They’re thick and now clumped with water, and if it wasn’t for the smile on Zayn’s face, Harry could think that he just cried.

He drives a thumb under Zayn’s eyelids, to get rid of those sea drops, and then he kisses Zayn again. It’s stupid and a bit melodramatic, but the moment feels so intense Harry’s scared that they won’t have another. He’s been feeling like something’s shifting since they set foot in Costa Rica, and the thought of losing Zayn is almost fucking unbearable, but he _has _to consider it. He has to consider that he won’t be able to keep Zayn with him forever. Has to consider that Zayn has a fuckton more people, _clients_, with which he laughs and plays the boyfriend fantasy and with which he pretends that he wants to kiss them all the time.

But this, the ocean and the small truths, this is real, and Harry knows. Because Zayn is _really _scared of open waters, and yet he’s the one who proposed they do something about it, because maybe, _maybe_, he would only choose Harry to help him with that. Harry will take what he can get.

So they snog for a while, and then Harry takes the now damp towel for himself, wrapping it around his waist, before giving Zayn the other, still dry one, and draping it around his shoulders to keep him warmer. They sit on one of the two sunbeds, right under one of the torches so the lighting’s quite good, and Harry’s eyes land on the other bed, where his song lyrics notebook and his guitar are resting.

Zayn follows his gaze, and sighs. “Do you still wanna do it?” he asks with a small voice. “It’s, like, it’s okay if you changed your mind, you know. I think I know what this means to you. So it’s okay if you’re not ready.”

Harry chuckles. “I’ll never be ready, Zayn. I’ll never be ready to sing again, not on a stage, not with people watching and wondering why the fuck I disappeared, not with the snakes lurking under my feet and waiting to attack,” he says honestly, feeling his stomach churn. “But you said _not now, but when you're ready. _And I wanna be ready to do it with you at least. There’s honestly no one else I’d want to do it with.”

“Why?” Zayn asks, not unkindly, but wondering. “You have… better musicians. You have Louis. Or even Liam. Why me?”

Harry laughs quietly. “Because I don’t need someone who will give me advice on the music and the lyrics, or who will tell me how to make this song into a number one, Zayn. I need someone who will understand this is fucking scary for me, and who will know this is the biggest small truth I can get out of my heart.”

Zayn doesn’t reply. He just nods, and Harry nods too, embracing his guitar and retrieving his notebook. Zayn runs his fingers on the silver letters reading _Song Lyrics_ with something that almost looks like reverence, and Harry gives him a moment, because he also needs a moment for himself.

When Zayn retreats his fingers, like he didn’t exactly realize what he was doing, Harry opens the notebook and flips through the pages. He smiles when he gets glimpses of his old titles, old pages scribbled and filled to the brim with lines who had then been changed, crossed out, switched, doodled over. _Sign Of The Times_. _Two Ghosts. Anna. Right Now. From The Dining Table. Girl Almighty. Half A Heart. Carolina. Meet Me In The Hallway. Happily. Little White Lies. Sweet Creature. Long Way Down._

Some of the songs he helped Louis with, or wrote for him telling him he didn’t want to be mentioned in the credits, are also there. _No Control. Best Song Ever. Just Hold On. Temporary Fix. Wolves. I Miss You. _

There’s also the page for _Olivia_, Harry notices with a chuckle, completely destroyed and with a dick drawn all over it, the ink smudged with what was surely booze, and Harry’s and Louis’s handwriting all wobbly and sloppy because of how fucking drunk they were when they put their pens on the paper and wrote the track who then broke the charts and gave their PR teams a coronary.

Zayn chuckles too, when he sees it. Harry reckons he knows _Olivia_, he’s sure there are very few people who have never listened to it, and also, Zayn’s still a fan of Louis’s, so of course he’ll know the song he wrote with Harry Styles. “We were so fucking drunk that night, you know,” he tells Zayn. “Drunk out of our minds in my recording booth with Liam. We wrote the song and recorded it with only one mic, our two guitars, a fucking trumpet we took ages to figure out, and no drums. Liam did the drums line by beatboxing. We released the song ourselves that very night. Our teams wanted to bloody kill us. Jeff almost threw me out of a fucking window, I swear.”

Zayn laughs. Hard, with a hand on his stomach and tears pooling in his eyes. “I _knew _that!” he howls. “I _knew _you had to be drunk! Fucking _Summertime and butterflies all belong to your creation_? There was _no way _you’d think about that sober!” he exclaims.

_So you do know _Olivia_, _Harry smirks to himself. “Louis always says the same thing. I’ll have you know I don’t need to be drunk to be a very romantic songwriter, Zayn,” he replies with a fake posh tone.

Zayn giggles and pokes one of Harry’s dimples. “Sure, Harry Styles,” he says, and it doesn’t sound mocking in the slightest. Maybe a bit awed. Maybe Zayn is a bit astounded that Harry’s there, talking freely about his music with him, when he must know how much it costs Harry to even open the subject.

Harry sobers up from his laughter, and so does Zayn. He goes to the last written page of his notebook, and sighs, looking down at _A.M. _scribbled on top of a column of very messy lyrics and chords.

“In your own time, Harry Styles,” Zayn says, whispers it.

Harry takes a breath, and then he goes underwater. It’s a different kind of water compared to the one Zayn just went under, and yet, Harry thinks, it’s exactly the same.

_Won't you stay 'til the A.M.?_

_All my favourite conversations_

_Always made in the A.M_

_Yeah, yeah_

Harry has brought his guitar with him to Costa Rica, without a particular reason, if he’s honest. He’s never played it since he quit. But the morning they left, when he was packing, he just grabbed it, changed the strings, re-glued the stickers, and brought it. He’s glad he did, now. It feels… right.

_You and me were raised in the same part of town_

_Got these scars on the same ground_

_Remember how we used to kick around just wasting time?_

Harry raises his head. Zayn’s staring at him like Harry is the last fucking human being on Earth with him in that moment, and it feels too much, too real, but Harry takes it, and he doesn’t avert his gaze. He doesn’t need to look at the lyrics or the chords, he knows them by heart.

_Won't you stay 'til the A.M.?_

_All my favourite conversations_

_Always made in the A.M_

_'Cause we don't know what we're saying_

_We're just swimming 'round in our glasses_

_And talking out of our asses_

_Like we're all gonna make it, yeah yeah_

He realizes that his voice is rising, it’s not shy and worried anymore. Harry’s now singing, _properly _singing, to Zayn and to himself, and it feels right, like it’s the only thing he should be doing, like all the pondering and worrying about asking Zayn to go to Costa Rica with him has led exactly to this very moment, to Zayn being there to overcome a small fear of his and help Harry do the same.

_Oh, oh, you know I'm always coming back to this place_

_Oh, oh, you know _

_And I'll say_

_Oh, oh, you know I'm always gonna look for your face_

_Oh, oh, you know_

Harry has written this bridge thinking about the stage. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever come back to _that place_, that stage with a mic and thousands of people watching and not knowing what it means for him, but he’s going back to it anyway, isn’t he? Every day, every minute, in his mind, every time his throat aches to sing a note again, he’s going back to the stage and missing it and loving it.

_Won't you stay 'til the A.M.?_

_All my favourite conversations_

_Always made in the A.M_

_'Cause we don't know what we're saying_

_We're just swimming 'round in our glasses_

_And talking out of our asses_

_Like we're all gonna make it, yeah yeah_

The song is over. Harry sings the last note and plays the last chord, and after that, neither he nor Zayn speaks. Zayn doesn’t let his eyes wander off from Harry’s, and Harry’s own gaze doesn’t falter.

After a time that could either be short or a couple lifetimes, Zayn smiles, and grabs Harry’s chin with his thumb and index. “You did it.”

Harry nods. “I did it.”

“And you did it with your chin up,” Zayn adds. “Your chin should always be up, Harry. Not now, but when you’re ready. When you’re ready, you’re gonna stop bowing your head to walk, Harry Styles.”

+

Zayn doesn’t particularly want to go back to the UK, he thinks as he packs his stuff while Harry is recording the last, dramatic scenes of Judges’ Houses by the pool. He already decided who he was gonna bring to the live shows and who he was gonna send home two days ago, but there’s been some kind of problem with the cameras, so they couldn’t film the whole deal. Zayn kinda pitied those poor sods having to wait _two whole days _to know if their singing careers would keep going or not.

Now, Harry’s telling them, and in the meantime, Zayn’s packing. They’re going back in a couple hours. Zayn dreads it.

His work phone goes off, _again_, with a call from Dahlia.

Dahlia has been a fucking nightmare to fend off, and Zayn’s pissed at her, because she _knows _he’s working. She doesn’t need to know just how much Zayn does _not _feel like he’s working.

Nonetheless, he decides to finally answer. “Yes,” he just says.

Dahlia hums. “Glad to know you’re alive.”

“I am. And I’m still working. Harry got pissed that my phone went off all the fucking time,” he lies.

Dahlia hums again. “I apologize,” she says, blatantly insincere. “Zayn, what the _fuck _exactly are you doing?”

“What do you mean?” Zayn frowns.

“You lost four clients this month, and you didn’t tell me about the last two. You fucked off to Costa Rica with Harry Styles, accepting the job without even consulting the agency, and you generally didn’t care about the _rest _of your jobs. It’s not like you.”

Zayn knows it’s true. “’M sorry, doll,” he says, hoping to sound contrite enough. “I thought you’d appreciate the fuckton of money this one gig would bring us.”

“I do,” she sighs. “But Zayn, you’re being very unprofessional. The bosses are kinda angry at you. I was only able to placate them by finding you a new, filthy rich client. You have an appointment with him in two days.”

Zayn’s stomach lurches. The thought of ever fucking seeing _another client _makes him feel nauseous. _I don’t wanna do this anymore. I wanna quit. And it’s not even because of Harry. It’s because I want to be _real_. I wanna stop being scared_.

The realization hits him like a truck. He’s standing by the bed, his suitcase open and almost full, and he doesn’t fucking wanna do _this _anymore. He opens his mouth to tell Dahlia. _I wanna quit._

Dahlia doesn’t give him time. “This is another Ben Winston, Zayn,” she says, defeatedly.

Zayn’s throat closes off. “What do you mean?”

“Do you think I really didn’t notice, when you started?” she chuckles bitterly. “You think you’re all cool and collected, love, but you ain’t. I saw it on your face, how you fell for that man. How you told me you wanted to quit because you fell in love with him. How you stopped being professional with your other clients because of him. But it’s _not real_, Zayn, you understand? You sell them a fantasy, and you know better than selling it to yourself as well. It’s not real, Zayn. Whatever you think you’re doing. It’s just another job, another client.”

Dahlia’s words hit something deep inside Zayn, because he’s thought about it not being real every single fucking minute since he met Harry, but what Zayn feels, deep down, _is _real, and nobody will ever know how much, not Dahlia, not even Harry.

And the thought of his feelings, _his heart_, being on display like that for basically a stranger is unbearable, it’s scary, it’s not right. So Zayn takes a breath, and lies at the best of his abilities, knowing that this is what he’s _good _at, and if he fooled himself, he can damn well fool Dahlia.

+

Harry huffs and goes back to the chateau, feeling a bit bummed and a bit teary about having to send Jack, Krystal and Martha away. They’re so fucking good, but Harry can only bring three contestants to the live shows, and he _had _to make a decision. He hopes they’ll forgive him.

He kinda wants to just hug Zayn and complain about it for a moment, but he never does, because when he gets to the steps of the house, by the hot tub, he hears him and sees him on the phone, with a small grin on his face as he keeps the device trapped between his ear and shoulder, and keeps folding his clothes as he speaks.

“Do you think I’m fucking stupid, Dahlia? He’s a _client_, nothing more. _One _Ben Winston was enough, believe me, I’m not gonna fall for _that _ever again,” he says flatly. “It’s work, and if I did all of this, being unprofessional, preferring Harry Styles over other clients, it’s ‘cause Harry Styles is a fucking _gold mine_, okay? It’s so fucking _easy_, doll. Harry Styles just wants the fucking boyfriend fantasy. I'm there, I pretend to be his boyfriend, I let him fuck me, he whines a little, I smile at him and kiss him, and that’s it, can you believe this shit? Just _this_ gives us already a couple thousand pounds. We have to be mental not to do all we can to fucking keep him, and _that’s _what I’m doing. You and our bosses can thank me later.”

It’s ugly.

The way Zayn speaks is ugly.

The way Harry’s stomach twists in anger is ugly.

The way he knows Zayn is totally, utterly _right_ is ugly.

Harry feels bile rise up his throat, because he knows he should leave, should pretend this never happened and cherish the moments in which Zayn was himself, giving Harry small truths, but deep down, _deep down_, Harry knows he can’t cherish those either, because maybe none of those was even close to the truth anyway. He knows Zayn’s good at what he does, and Harry will never actually know what was real and what was fake.

_I played a fucking song for him. I overcame my fear, and maybe even that was fake_.

Harry knows what he has to do, deep in his bones, and he knows it’s ugly as well, he knows it’ll shatter everything.

But Zayn is not the only one who’s good at pretending. Harry learned to pretend the very first time he snorted coke and then pretended he didn’t want more. Harry is also ace at keeping secrets, especially if they’re dirty.

And the hurt he feels, the _love _he feels, is the dirtiest secret of them all.

So he clears his throat and announces his presence while Zayn’s still on the phone. He looks at Zayn in the eyes, and Zayn’s face loses all its colour, all the blood seems to be drained from his cheeks, and his eyes widen as he stops fussing over his clothes and gets a firmer grip on his phone, like it’ll fall if he doesn’t hold it with his hand. _Is he really upset I heard? Is he just scared I’ll be mad?_

It doesn’t matter, in the end. Because Harry knows what he has to do.

So he smiles politely at Zayn, keeps looking at him with his chin up, and he overcomes another fear.

The fear of losing Zayn. Harry overcomes it by ripping the fucking band-aid.

“It’s fine,” he says, loud enough that Dahlia will hear as well. “I don’t need it anymore. I was planning on telling you and your agency when we got back. We’ve been seen together enough, I think it’ll be okay now if we ‘break up’, right?” he smiles more and makes inverted commas in the air. “It won’t spark fling rumours now, if we’re not seen together anymore. So it’s okay. You can tell Dahlia I’ll stop by the agency to cancel my subscription tomorrow. I apologize if I kept you from other clients.”

Zayn blinks. Harry has to do his best not to avert his gaze from him, because his eyes are wide and sad in his face, and Harry desperately wants to believe the hurt he sees is real, even if he feels like a dick for wanting Zayn to be _really _hurt.

Then, Zayn clears his throat, and smiles too, nodding. “Dahlia? You hear that? Harry Styles says that he doesn’t need me anymore and he’ll cancel his subscription when we get back. So, those new clients, book me with them whenever. I’ll have more time now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs mentioned in this chapter belong to Harry Styles, Louis Tomlinson and One Direction. The song quoted is _A.M._ by One Direction.
> 
> Only one more chapter to go! I'm having all the feels :')
> 
> Let me know what you're thinking!
> 
> I am also on Tumblr as wont-you-stay-till-the-am.tumblr.com, come hit me up if you wanna talk.


	10. Tell-tale signs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zayn thinks he can let Harry have one more, big truth. “I’ll give you my personal number,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer: I don't know or own any of the characters present in this work. I only own the plot and any eventual original character.

_“So I guess, like, goodbye?”_

_“Yeah, Zayn. Thank you for everything. It’s been nice meeting you.”_

_“Harry, I…”_

_“It’s alright. Have a good life. Keep your chin up.”_

_“You too, Harry.”_

_They kiss, even. It feels wrong and bitter, like the end of a transaction, like Harry’s kissing Zayn just because he _has_ to, and Zayn wants to cry._

_But he doesn’t. He kisses Harry back, hard and fast, hoping to impress one last bruise on those lips._

Zayn wakes up in a tangle of sheets, and drenched in sweat.

It’s been like this for two days already.

Two days since he said goodbye to Harry. Two days since Harry broke his heart with a smile and a polite signature at the end of his cancelled subscription at the agency. Two days since he himself probably broke Harry’s heart by telling Dahlia those things on the phone. Or maybe Harry didn’t even care about that, Zayn will never know now.

Two nights, and Zayn’s still dreaming—having nightmares—about the _fake _way they said goodbye and kissed after a silent flight back to the UK.

+

_“So I guess, like, goodbye?”_

_“Yeah, Zayn. Thank you for everything. It’s been nice meeting you.”_

_“Harry, I…”_

_“It’s alright. Have a good life. Keep your chin up.”_

_“You too, Harry.”_

_They kiss, even. It feels wrong and bitter, like the end of a transaction, like Zayn’s kissing Harry just because he _has_ to, and Harry wants to cry._

_But he doesn’t. He kisses Zayn back, hard and fast, hoping to impress one last bruise on those lips._

Harry wakes up, and he didn’t even realize he fell asleep. He’d spent the whole night on his terrace, with a mute guitar and his notebook opened to a blank page, staring at every fucking spot in which he fucked Zayn. Which means every single corner of the terrace, of his whole penthouse, and even the fucking garden.

It’s been two days since they said goodbye, so stiffly and _fake_, and Harry still has trouble sleeping because he _knows _he’ll dream about the hurt he saw in Zayn’s eyes. Or maybe Zayn wasn’t even hurt, it was just part of his show. Harry will never know, now.

+

“Wanna go get a beer tonight?” Niall asks Zayn. He does so a bit defeatedly, like he already knows Zayn will say no, and it makes Zayn feel a little guilty, that Niall is noticing how shitty Zayn’s feeling, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

Zayn sighs, shimmying into his skinny jeans and then doing up the buttons of his shirt in front of the mirror. Niall’s leaning into the doorframe of Zayn’s bedroom door, and they look at each other through the reflection. Niall looks worried. Zayn reckons he himself looks like he hasn’t slept well in a week, which is the utter truth. “Nah, mate, I can’t, sorry,” he says honestly. “I’ve got a client tonight.”

Niall sighs. “You’ve been back for less than seven days and I’ve never seen you take _so many _appointments in such a short time.”

Zayn does his best to grin, even though he knows he can’t fool Niall. “Gotta get back into my sugar daddies’ good graces. Try to make up for the losses I suffered ‘cause of Harry Styles.”

His name feels wrong in Zayn’s mouth, but Zayn won’t indulge himself with the ‘not daring to speak his name’ thing. He still talks about Harry Styles. He still listens to _Rambles For Breakfast_. Hell, he even still sends his texts to Harry at the radio.

He can talk and listen to Harry Styles.

It’s _Harry _he doesn’t want to think about.

Niall sighs again. “I think what happened before you got back here could have been the perfect occasion to quit this fucking job and get the man you’re obviously in love with,” he says bluntly, “but instead you made it become the reason why you lost the man and kept the fucking job.”

Zayn doesn’t get angry, because Niall’s right, even though it hurts. “This is what I do.”

“It’s not what you _wanna _do,” Niall retorts. “But okay, Zed. Until you don’t realize it for yourself, there’s little anyone can do. Not even Harry Styles.”

Zayn doesn’t tell Niall just how much his words are _close _to the ones Harry said more than once.

Derek Everly is a good man.

He’s one of Zayn’s new clients, and Zayn actually likes spending time with him in his villa on the outskirts of London, because Derek is sixty-five, he’s blind, and he doesn’t want to fuck.

Zayn knows he’s kind of a dick, because he’s happy about a lonely man having to call an escort agency to have some company, but there you have it. There’s no space for being sentimental in this job, even though the only thing Derek wants from Zayn is exactly that. Being a bit sentimental.

They met right when Zayn got back from Costa Rica, and Zayn had felt a little like dying at the thought of having _someone else’s _hands on him, so he probably looked a little bit like a fucking deer in headlights when he rang the bell of Derek Everly’s villa.

But Derek is blind, so he didn’t notice.

Derek only wants to have nice conversation and company. He lost his husband to cancer three months prior, and he’s come to terms with it, but he still wants to speak about him, about them, about what they did together. He’s so fucking alone it breaks Zayn’s heart a bit, when he thinks about it.

Derek only wants to talk. He asks Zayn questions, and Zayn has found that he doesn’t even mind answering them honestly. He’s so tired of guarding every fucking thing he says. And Derek might be old and blind, but it’s like he can _smell _bullshit, and he’s not afraid to call Zayn out on it.

He doesn’t want to fuck. He never touched Zayn, if not when they first met, and politely asked if he could run his hands on Zayn’s face so that he could know what Zayn looked like. Zayn had let him, and Derek had smirked, saying that “With cheekbones like that, you should ask for a lot more money, love”.

He’s fun. It had been one of the first real laughs someone got out of Zayn since he said goodbye to Harry at the airport after they landed, before a driver brought him back to Piccadilly, by himself, without Harry.

It’s Zayn’s fifth appointment with Derek, the first having been the very night he came back to the UK.

Derek lets him in, looking perfectly at ease roaming his own place even though he can’t see, but Zayn reckons it’s normal, because Derek has been blind since he was sixteen, so he’s had a whole life to get adjusted to it.

Derek wants to talk, have dinner and nice conversation, he wants to know about Zayn, and then wants Zayn to read a little bit for him out loud before sending him on his way, with a book from his personal library that Zayn can choose and keep forever.

Derek is pretty fucking brilliant, if Zayn’s honest. And it’s perfect, because there’s no danger for Zayn to fall down a hole he won’t know how to get out of without jeopardizing his whole fucking heart.

But again, that’s not a problem anymore, because he’s pretty sure his heart is somewhere else right now, with Harry, thumping unevenly and wondering if Harry’s fine, if he’s freaking out about the start of the live shows, if he ever sang his new song to anyone else, if he’ll ever be ready.

+

Harry’s freaking out about the live shows.

He’s been trying to keep his cool, but as soon as he gets into his dressing room, he feels unbearably close to panicking for no other reason than the fact that he’s gonna sit on the wrong end of a stage, scared shitless about his face being too revealing, scared that a good song performed by a good upcoming artist is gonna make him cry on national tv, and scared that someone will ask him about his boyfriend at some point, because he’s not sure he’ll manage to get the words “We broke up” out of his mouth.

Louis and Liam promised to come say hi to him before the show, and Harry has half a mind to just call them and beg them to hurry up even though there’s still two hours to go. He doesn’t, though, because they do show up, right that moment.

They’re really his closest friends, because they take one look at him, and then they sigh, stepping inside the dressing room and closing the door behind them.

“Hazza?” Louis asks tentatively, coughing a little. He’s got a huge cold going on, Harry can see it. “How are you… how are you holding up?”

“Shit,” Harry chuckles bitterly. “I’m holding up like shit and I fucking miss Zayn and I’m a fucking idiot and I’m scared all the fucking time.”

They were probably just asking about the show, but it’s not like they don’t know what Harry’s real issues are, and Zayn has become a real issue since the very moment he stepped into Harry’s life with a grin telling him that he could be whatever Harry wanted him to be.

His friends sigh again, and they pull out two chairs from under the table next to Harry’s dresser, placing them closer to him and then sitting. “You do look a bit shit,” Liam offers.

It gets a laugh out of Harry, at least. “I hope the makeup artist is fucking amazing. I haven’t slept properly in a week.”

Louis chuckles. “I think I saw her freaking out in another room and shrieking that she’s about to touch Harry Styles’s face.”

“The delight,” Harry snorts.

There’s a knock on the door. Harry thinks it’s the girl with the makeup, but when he says “Come in” and the door opens, it’s Simon. He looks a bit pale. “Harry?”

Harry sighs and forces a smile out. “Hey, Simon. All good? You look a bit worried. Everything’s gonna be great, I promise,” he says, because he knows Simon can look like a monster and like the bane of every singer’s existence, but Harry also knows just how much money Simon puts on the line for this show every year, and he gets that he’s nervous.

Simon sighs. “I think that’ll depend on you, Harry,” he says warily. “Shawn Mendes just called me. He, uh, broke his leg. He’s not gonna make it.”

Harry frowns. Shawn is supposed to sing at the start of this first live show, to open the episode. What are they gonna do now? “Have you got a backup plan?”

Simon doesn’t answer. He just looks at Harry.

Harry understands, a second later than Louis and Liam, and then he understands some more when he sees them both go absurdly pale and stare at him. He’s already shaking his head by then, feeling like someone’s just gotten a hold of his guts and they’re squeezing, like they want to reduce him to a bloody mess on the floor. “No no no, I’m sure you can ask anyone else. Rita. Anyone,” he tells Simon.

Simon shakes his head. “No, I can’t. Rita’s scheduled to perform next week at the opening. I can’t just have her sing twice when _you’re _here. You gotta sing, Harry, please.”

“No, I can’t. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

Simon’s gaze hardens. “I gave you a career, Harry. I understand that you wanted to throw it away. But you owe me at least this. Please.”

Louis stands up. “He said he doesn’t fucking want to.”

Louis coughs again. Harry knows he'd just tell Simon that he would sing, if he could, despite him hating Simon’s guts. But he's really too sick.

The last thing Harry wants is a fucking fight between Louis and Simon, but he can’t bring himself to open his mouth, because his head is spinning, he feels like the chair he’s sitting in is turning around and around, his legs made of water, his eyes melting. He knows he must be breathing in the wrong way too, because he feels Liam’s comforting hand rub circles on his back.

He remembers another hand rubbing soothing circles on his back.

Zayn’s hand, in Costa Rica, when Harry got sunburnt and was whining like a little bitch, and Zayn was straddling him and shushing him as he carefully spread aloe on his back.

_You’re gonna be just fine, Harry. Breathe. I don’t wanna be scared anymore, Harry. I’m sick of being scared. Tell me a small truth, Harry. Not now, but when you’re ready._

Harry looks up at Simon.

He misses it so much. The stage. _I’m always coming back to this place_, he sang to Zayn.

He misses it so much it kills him, sometimes. And he’s not ready, but he has to be, he owes it to Simon and to Zayn and to _Texter at the radio_, his fan still begging him to air a song of his every morning.

“Okay,” Harry says at last, knowing it’s a bad, bad idea, and he’ll have a panic attack right on the stage and make a fool of himself and Simon both. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

Louis gapes at him. Liam gulps down. Simon smiles, oblivious to Harry’s torments. “Cheers, Harry. Just this once, I swear,” he says, and goes.

_Just this once, babe_.

Harry doesn’t speak anymore, but he can’t breathe properly, and he wishes Zayn was there to tell him _Head bowed and walk, Harry Styles._

+

“When was the last time you were heartbroken, Zayn?” Derek asks while he cooks dinner.

Zayn would never say it out loud, but he’s a bit worried for Derek when he does things like fucking _cook by himself_, considering that he’s blind but he’s not fucking Daredevil. So he’s standing next to him, not doing anything and pretending he’s just there because he wants to be close to him while they speak, and he’s kinda watching him and making sure Derek doesn’t burn his own fingers or something.

Zayn chuckles. “A week ago,” he replies. It comes out easily. There are no small truths or big lies with Derek, because neither he nor Zayn need them. So Zayn doesn’t think about lying, doesn’t make himself sweat it, doesn’t overthink it.

Derek hums. “What did he do?”

“He reminded me I’m an escort, and that there’s no future for any of this.”

“I’m sure he was just as heartbroken, you know,” Derek says lightly.

Zayn arches an eyebrow, knowing that Derek can’t see it but will _feel _it in Zayn’s voice. “How do you know?”

Derek chuckles. “Face like yours, and feisty little attitude like yours, I’m sure you had the lad wrapped around your finger as well.”

“Sometimes I don’t know if you’re complimenting me or insulting me,” Zayn comments.

Derek laughs, and winks in Zayn’s direction. “Maybe I’m doing both. I’m good at multi-tasking. Andreas always said that. But he might have been talking about me being able to finger him real good while I gave him head as well, in hindsight.”

Zayn snorts. Derek always says random filthy shit when he least expects it. “Eh, not that hard of a feat, if I can be honest,” he replies nonetheless.

Derek laughs. “Not everybody has our same skills, Zayn, be nice,” he stage-whispers as he drops diced mushrooms in a pan, thoroughly and precisely, like he can actually _see _them. _Maybe he _is_ Daredevil_, Zayn wonders, gaping a little.

“When Andreas and I were about twenty-five,” Derek says after a while, when he plates their dinner by himself, without needing any help, “we broke up. For a whole year.”

Zayn widens his eyes. He’s gotten to know Derek and his relationship to his late husband quite well in the last week, from all of Derek’s tales, so the thought that those two could ever split up, even if it was such a long time ago, is kinda inconceivable. “Really? Why?” Zayn asks.

Derek chuckles and carefully hands Zayn a plate. They bring their dinner to the couch, where they usually eat. Derek’s wearing sweatpants and a tank top, his old tattoos a bit fucked up after such a long time now that his skin is aging. Zayn knows he got most of them with Andreas. “Because he didn’t want to come out,” Derek says, biting down on a piece of the mushroom pie he made.

Zayn looks at him. His hair is almost completely grey, cut short, and his now glassy eyes look both like they’re very focused and distant at the same time. Zayn doesn’t say anything.

Derek keeps speaking after a moment. “He didn’t want to come out despite us having been together for already ten years by then. I thought he was ashamed of me, so I broke up with him. There was a lot of crying involved. I didn’t see him for a year.”

“What happened then?” Zayn asks eagerly.

Derek chuckles, probably amused by just how much Zayn is invested in a story about two strangers in the seventies. “I was with a lot of people. They never lasted. They never felt right. It was killing me. Then, one night, someone came knocking at my door. I opened, and there was someone there, but they didn’t speak. I knew it was Andreas anyway, even if I couldn’t see. I never actually _saw _him, you know. I knew every inch of his face and body by heart, but I never got to see him. That night, I saw him. Because I could feel how it was killing him too, I could feel that he’d also tried and failed to move on, and I understood his real problem even if he didn’t speak. He was not ashamed. He was scared.”

“Scared of what?” Zayn gulps down some air.

Derek shrugs. “Of everything. Of coming out. Of being branded as different, disgusting, against nature. Of loving me too much. But, the things is, Zayn, that he was also scared of something else.”

“Of what?”

“Of losing me,” Derek smiles. “We didn’t speak. I mean, of course we spoke about it, later on. But that night, we didn’t speak, because there was no need. The moment we stood on my threshold, and then he stepped inside, it took the biggest fucking leap of faith we ever made. And when we both stepped forward, and we jumped, we felt how right it was, and that was it. We’ve been together every day of our lives ever since. Granted, it took us a long fucking time to get married, but that was just ‘cause laws are shit, and not because we were scared anymore.”

Zayn doesn’t reply for a moment. He thinks about Harry, in that moment. About being scared and taking leaps of faith. “Why are you telling me?” he then asks. Derek always tells him stuff, but this feels different, somehow.

Derek smiles. “Because sometimes heartbreak is useful. Makes you realize stuff. And I think you haven’t fully realized _your _stuff yet. But you’ll get there, eventually. And so will your bloke.”

Zayn chuckles bitterly. “I doubt it. I don’t even know if he’s still thinking about me, to be honest.”

Derek scoffs. “Cheekbones like yours ain’t that easy to stop thinking about, love, and I haven’t even actually _seen _them. I think Andreas is fucking jealous, wherever he is now.”

Zayn laughs. “Jealous of you inviting blokes with good cheekbones over?”

Derek laughs too. “No. Jealous ‘cause _he _would have liked to have your cheekbones around for himself, the lil’ shit.”

They eat in silence for a while, and then Derek sighs, running his hand on the couch until he gets a hold of the remote for the telly. He lightly feathers his fingers over the buttons, until he finds the one he’s looking for, and turns the tv on. “We can watch the X-Factor,” he says.

Zayn’s stomach drops. “Why?”

“Because you told me you like the show. My book’s gonna be here for you to read even when the show will be over. I think we’re safe,” Derek replies, winks, and then the X-Factor is on the telly, just starting.

The first thing Zayn notices is that the chair where Harry should sit at the judges’ tables is empty. Simon, Rita and Nick are there, talking, but Harry’s nowhere to be seen.

The camera zooms on the host, then, Olly Murs, and he smiles brightly. “Welcome to the X-Factor, first round of the live shows!” he announces while people cheer. “There’s already been a bit of a commotion, but that’s live tv for you. We were supposed to have Shawn Mendes here performing to open the night, but he sadly can’t make it. But don’t you worry, because our one and only Harry Styles saved the day, and he’s gonna give us his own performance, after _two whole years _since he last sang! Stay tuned!”

_No no no what the fuck what the fuck_.

Zayn’s heart completely stops when the words leave Olly Murs’s mouth. He thinks about Harry, forced to sing for sure, because there’s just no way Harry would get on that stage of his own free will, he’s not there yet and Zayn knows. He thinks about how _scared _Harry must feel right now, in his dressing room, his breath coming out ragged and nobody understanding what this means for him.

And finally, Zayn thinks about himself. About how he wants to _be there _for Harry, ease his worries, hug him to his chest and whisper to him that he _is _ready, only he has to decide it for himself, admit it to himself, _do it _for himself and not for Simon Cowell or anyone else.

The thing is that they’re _both _ready, but they’re too scared to say it, too scared to take the leap of faith over the threshold like Derek and Andreas did forty years ago.

“Zayn?” Derek calls him quietly.

Zayn only hums, because he’s freaking out so much he’s not sure his voice will hold up.

Derek smiles. His glassy eyes are pointed at the telly even though he can’t see it. “I think you should get up and fucking run to your bloke. Step over your threshold and all that.”

Zayn frowns. “What?” he asks, and it’s almost a moan.

Derek points at the telly with his head, like he _knows _exactly what’s going on. “Your bloke,” he repeats. “He needs you, doesn’t he? And you need _him_. So I think you should go, like, now.”

“How do you even _know_?” Zayn exclaims, a bit shocked, feeling like his heart is hammering its way out of his chest.

Derek chuckles. “Zayn, lovely Zayn. I’ve been in love for as long as I can remember. And I can’t see, but I recognize that little hitch in someone’s breath, that little shakiness of someone’s voice when they speak, all the little tell-tale signs that tell me that someone is in love, because I’ve felt them on myself for the longest time. So go, now. Be happy. And be brave, because love needs a little bit of bravery as well, sometimes.”

Zayn, to his credit, is already standing up, his legs shaking like they’re made of jelly. “I’ll, um, I’ll talk to Dahlia about refunding you. And next time, I…”

Derek laughs. “Zayn, if you come here as an escort _one more time_, I will be very, very angry. You don’t need _this_,” he says, waving his hand around his place, knowing Zayn understands what he means. “You need _that_,” he adds, pointing at Zayn himself, at his chest.

Zayn places a hand over his heart. “What if it just breaks one more time?” he finds himself asking, his voice so small he’s ashamed of the fear he’s letting Derek hear through it.

Derek smiles. “You’ll take another leap of faith. And another. And another. Until your heart stops breaking, and starts mending itself. Now go, I’m tired of looking at your beautiful face.”

Zayn, despite it all, grins. “You can’t even see it, Derek.”

Derek laughs. “Then make sure your bloke looks at it for me as well. And it wouldn’t be bad if he wrote a whole fucking album about your cheekbones. They deserve it.”

Zayn gapes, and he wants to ask Derek just _how the fuck _he even understood _who _the bloke is.

Instead, Zayn leans down, hugs Derek, and then runs.

“Hi. I’m Zayn Malik, Harry Styles’s boyfriend. I need to see him,” Zayn announces when he gets to the X-Factor studios. There are two guards at the gates, and Zayn must look a complete mess, sweaty and panting because there was too much traffic so he had to abandon his car in a parking lot and then run the rest of the way there.

The guards frown. “I’m sorry, we’re not allowed to let anyone in. You either have a ticket to be in the audience, or you leave,” one of them says.

Zayn grunts frustratedly. “You don’t understand, I _have to _see him!”

“And you don’t understand that you _can’t_,” the guard replies sternly. “If you know him, he should have given us your name. But he didn’t. So you’ll have to wait for the show to be over and for him to come out.”

Zayn is not opposed to begging, at that point. The only thing he can think about is Harry, freaking out, panicking, _needing him_, and if it’s presumptuous to think that Harry would _need Zayn_ for this, then Zayn is fucking presumptuous. “Please,” he says. “I need…”

“Zayn?”

A backstage door has just opened, and suddenly Zayn’s looking at Louis and Liam, who have probably come out to smoke if the cigarettes they’re holding are anything to go by, and they’re now staring at Zayn a bit dumbfounded.

Zayn gulps down a breath, and nods. “I need to see him. Please, Louis, Liam. I need him.”

It takes almost all the courage Zayn has, because he knows Liam and Louis, and he knows they probably hate the shit out of Zayn right now, because he surely hurt Harry, he broke him more when he’d promised Louis that he wouldn’t, and Louis will probably just call the fucking police and make them remove Zayn from private grounds or something, and…

Louis sighs. “Guys, it’s okay,” he tells the guards, and then gestures for Zayn to get closer. “C’mon, lad. We’ll show you where he is.”

Zayn doesn’t need to be told twice, and he follows Liam and Louis through the small back entrance, and then along a narrow corridor illuminated by harsh white lights. But it’s like Zayn can’t fucking shut up anymore, about anything, so he needs to address the matter. “Why are you letting me see him?” he asks. “You shouldn’t even want me anywhere close to him.”

Liam just chuckles and shakes his head, and Louis doesn’t stop walking, but he turns to look at Zayn, and his eyes are much gentler than Zayn actually expected. “Because you look like you haven’t slept properly in a week, and Harry’s been fucking miserable without you. Me and my better half here like to be good Samaritans,” he declares.

Zayn doesn’t have time to reply, because they turn a corner and stop at a wooden door labelled _Harry Styles Dressing Room_, and Zayn’s stomach flips. Louis knocks, and Zayn distinctly hears Harry’s sharp intake of breath in the room. “I need one more moment, please, please,” he says, and Zayn’s heart breaks all over again at the panic latched into Harry’s beautiful voice.

Louis doesn’t seem deterred. He turns the door’s handle, opens it, and then sets a hand on Zayn’s back, gently pushing him inside. “Go on,” he just says.

Zayn finds himself past the threshold, in more than one sense, and Louis and Liam close the door behind him again.

Zayn stays where he is. Harry’s sitting on a chair, his face in his hands, his whole body shaking. “Please, one more minute, please please please…”

“Harry,” Zayn says, murmurs it.

Harry freezes. He keeps his hands on his face, but just for a moment. Then, he slowly lowers them, and they finally look at each other in the eyes.

Neither of them moves. Harry stays on the chair, staring at Zayn with wide eyes, like his brain can’t quite compute what he’s seeing. He looks so beautiful Zayn desperately feels the need to cover the distance between them, make Harry stand up, and kiss him. But he doesn’t move.

“Zayn?”

Zayn nods. “Hi, Harry.”

“What… what are you doing here?” Harry asks, standing up. His legs tremble and he looks almost like he’s about to go straight to the ground, and Zayn’s hands hitch to grab for him and steady him, but he forces himself to stay still.

Zayn could answer a lot of things. He could tell Harry that he’s there because he saw that he’s about to sing and he wants to make sure Harry’s gonna be fine. That he just wanted to see him again.

But the reason Zayn’s there is not that, isn’t it? Zayn isn’t just there because Harry’s about to sing, and not even just because he misses Harry.

The truth is that Zayn’s there because it’s time to be ready, and Harry needs to know so that he can understand he himself can be ready as well.

“I don’t wanna be an escort anymore. I hated it before, and I only hated it more after I met you. I wanna be a fucking architect,” he says, and a nervous laugh bubbles on his lips as soon as he finally says the words out loud, to himself and to Harry. “I wanted to quit even before falling for you, and no, don’t look at me like that, because _of course _I’ve fallen for you, Harry, you can’t seriously think otherwise,” he adds when Harry gapes. “And it's true that after Ben I started guarding my heart more, but I just _can’t_ with you, I had no fucking chance from the start, and I _don’t want to_, I want to be _real_, okay?”

Zayn takes a breath, feeling all his organs float out of his body, like he let out more than words, like he let go of an unbearable weight he had on his shoulders.

Harry blinks, taking a step closer to Zayn. “You told Dahlia I’m a gold mine. That I want the boyfriend fantasy. You said none of it was real and that you were only giving me what I wanted,” he says, and it’s not exactly cold, just flat. Zayn hates that tone.

Nonetheless, he laughs. “Well, it’s not like I could confess my undying love for you to _her _when I hadn’t even actually confessed that to _myself_, Harry, yeah?”

“You broke my heart. I smiled and told you I didn’t need it anymore, but inside, I was fucking dying,” Harry replies then. And Zayn knows, he knows exactly what Harry means, because he was fucking dying as well.

So he nods. “I was dying too, Harry. All the mean shit I said on the phone was just because of that, because I was scared Dahlia would take one look at me and realize I’d really fallen for you, because it’s fucking written all over my face, babe, no matter how good at acting I think I am, and I honestly don’t know how we both didn’t notice. Fucking hell, _Derek Everly_ fucking noticed, and he’s fucking _blind_, Harry, like, he’s _literally blind_ and he still noticed!”

Zayn knows that he must be making little to no sense for Harry, because he doesn’t fucking know who Derek is, but that’s not the point now, the point is that Zayn’s _speaking_, he’s not doing the small truths anymore, he’s only saying one big, gigantic, enormous truth, and Harry has to understand it.

Harry does. His face goes through a kaleidoscope of colours and expressions, and then settles on a sad frown. He sighs, closing his eyes and lowering his head. “You deserve so much more than _this_, Zayn,” he mutters, lamely pointing at himself, at the whole mess of him Zayn knows and loves.

Zayn laughs again, a bit hysterically if he’s honest. “I’m tired of everybody telling me what I deserve, Haz, okay? I am deciding _for myself_, and I want _this_,” he hisses, patting Harry’s chest, quite harshly, not that either of them minds. They’ve gotten closer and closer while they spoke, like there’s a rope between them, pulling.

“And I don’t want _parts_, Harry,” Zayn adds. “I want you _whole_ and I want you _real_, but I can’t have just parts, it’s not enough, not anymore. And I don’t want you to only have parts of me, I want to give you everything, everything _real_ I own, I want you to have it. And I hope it’s enough, because it’s more than I’ve ever given, and I don’t have much else.”

“It’s enough. It’s more than enough,” Harry says quietly, but surely. “I’ve wanted you for so long that I’d gotten to a point where I couldn’t see the lines we drew anymore. I stopped understanding what was a small truth and what was fake and what was completely real. It’s driving me mad, Zayn, that I think about you all the fucking time and I don’t know if I’m just thinking about another lie or not.”

Zayn could just kiss Harry and tell him that _this _is real, show him through actions rather than words, and all that.

Instead, he thinks he can let Harry have one more, big truth. “I’ll give you my personal number,” he says.

Harry frowns. “Zayn, what does it have to do with…”

“Get your fucking phone out and save my fucking personal number, Harry.”

+

Harry doesn’t even know how Zayn went from making speeches longer than _anything _he’s ever said to Harry to just commanding him to save his personal number, but he’s done trying to figure out what is happening, so he just sighs, and takes his phone out of his pocket.

Zayn looks like he’s ready for a battle or something, and starts enunciating his number for Harry, who presses the digits on his phone, one after the other.

That’s when he understands.

His phone automatically looks for existent numbers in his contacts when he types the digits. And the more he keeps punching in Zayn’s number, the more a contact pops out. _Texter at the radio_.

Maybe there’s something wrong with his phone. He keeps frowning, and Zayn’s voice keeps shaking, until the number is completely written out on Harry’s phone, and Harry tries to save it.

A message shows up on his screen. _This number already exists in your contacts as _Texter at the radio.

“Just one more time, babe,” Zayn says then.

Harry almost drops his phone in his haste of staring back up at Zayn. “It’s _you_?” he shrieks.

Zayn nods, gulping down some air. “It’s me,” he confirms. “I’ve been your fan for a long fucking time, Harry. And you stopped believing in yourself, of course you did after all that happened to you, but _I_ never stopped believing in you, and that’s why I kept texting the radio, kept listening to your show and to your music. And you’re scared, I know you are, and I am too, but we can’t always be scared, can we?”

Harry’s brain is about to melt. The thought that Zayn’s been with him all this time, being his fan without letting Harry notice, is honestly kinda overwhelming, and Harry needs to address it, or he risks just having a heart attack and that’ll be how he goes. “So all the time you did your… _research _on me…”

“It wasn’t fucking _research_,” Zayn says almost angrily. “I have your fucking posters in my bedroom, I have all your albums, deluxe editions, and the DVDs of your tours, and all your interviews saved in a YouTube playlist, and I fucking wanked to your tattoos and your back at least a couple thousand times in the past five years, and I thought I had a crush on Harry Styles, but the truth is that I’m in love with you, with _Harry_, and that’s another matter entirely.”

Zayn is panting like he ran a mile after he says that. Harry’s head is spinning, and he knows he’s about to collapse, so he does the only thing that he can think of. He grabs Zayn by the shoulders, to steady himself, and Zayn’s hands instantly wrap around his waist, to keep Harry grounded.

Their foreheads knock together almost on their own accord, and Harry remembers what he’s supposed to do now, that he needs to go on stage. And the thing is that he _wants to_, because he’s never gonna be ready, except there’s a part of him who has _always _been ready. “You…” Harry says, his voice failing him so that he has to clear it before starting over. “You said that we can’t always be scared?”

Zayn smiles, and nods.

“I miss it, Zayn,” Harry says at last, almost in a whisper. “I miss the stage and I miss singing. And I wanna stop being scared.”

Zayn smiles even more brightly. “I miss you on stage and I miss you singing, Harry Styles.”

Harry chuckles. Then, the need is just too much, so he leans over, placing his lips on Zayn’s. Zayn sighs like he wasn’t fucking waiting for anything else, and he hauls Harry closer, opening his mouth straight away so their tongues can entwine, their teeth clashing, and it’s wet and dirty and good, and Harry missed _this _as well, so much he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

They snog for a moment, and then they’re interrupted by someone who knocks, shouts “Five minutes!” and then goes.

Harry gulps down some air. “Can you come backstage with me?”

Zayn nods. “I’m not gonna leave you alone with this. Or ever again, if I can be honest. So yeah, I’ll come with you.”

+

Harry’s hand is almost crushing Zayn’s when they walk through another corridor, until they’re in the waiting room for the contestants, the room where Zayn fucked Harry during Simon Cowell’s party, before everything went tumbling. The people there are nervously waiting, but they blink and frown when they see Harry and Zayn going up the small stairs that lead to the stage.

“Oh, fuck, he’s really gonna fucking sing again,” Zayn hears someone mutter.

Zayn turns around to look at the girl, Myriam, the one who was scared at Judges’ Houses and then Harry calmed down. He winks, and she blushes a little.

They get to the opening of the backstage, where they can see the stage lighted up and the band already positioned. There’s a crew member who tells Harry the mic is already on the stand for him, in the middle of the stage, and Harry nods, pale and shaking.

Zayn pulls him by the hand, so that Harry will turn, and knocks their foreheads together again.

“Will you stay here while I sing? I’m so fucking scared, Zayn. But I don’t wanna be anymore.”

Zayn chuckles. “Babe, I’ve been here watching you for five years. Of course I’ll stay here. And this?” he says, placing his hand on Harry’s head. “This should never bow. So, none of that _head bowed and walk_ nonsense, Harry Styles, not anymore. Chin up, and walk. I’ll be watching.”

“Then watch me,” Harry says, and in that moment, he grins like the _old_ Harry Styles, the Harry Styles who owned the stage and pranced and laughed.

Harry lets Zayn go and then runs across the stage with no warning, grabbing the mic while the crowd already goes wild.

He shouts the first line of _Kiwi_ into the mic like he can’t do anything else but this.

And that’s the complete, utter truth, Zayn thinks as his stomach unclenches, his eyes fill with tears, and he finally, finally listens to Harry Styles sing again.

\--

**Epilogue – Eight months later**

“Good morning everyone, you’re listening to _Rambles For Breakfast_ and right now we have a special guest, my boyfriend, Zayn Malik, who just joined me and looks like he’s seconds away from breaking up with me for dragging him into a radio booth at this ungodly hour,” Harry grins into his mic.

Zayn clears his throat. “Hello. Not true. I’m awake, I swear.”

“Awake might be an overstatement with him before noon, but anyway,” Harry comments cheerfully.

He’s feeling in a great mood. He can see Jeff and Ant sulking through the glass window of the booth, looking beyond tired and aghast at the fact that Harry just decided to bring Zayn to the radio with him without a single warning.

Harry reckons they’ve been having a tough time since Harry got back into singing and decided to _also _keep the radio show, so he’s trying to cut them some slack. But he’s still a shithead, and he still loves to give his PR team a coronary, so he basically still does whatever the fuck he wants, and they have to fucking deal with it.

Janine is also there, smiling fondly at him while shaking her head. Harry sends her a silent kiss through the window, and she rolls her eyes, but grabs it in the air and pretends to put it in her pocket.

Zayn arches an eyebrow, and then sends her a kiss too. Janine has a very soft spot for Zayn, because she doesn’t roll her eyes at _him_, and giggles while catching his kiss as well.

“You might want to know that my boyfriend is currently flirting with my publicist through the window, and I should be mad about this, but I am not, because I have just accepted that everybody wants to flirt with him,” Harry sighs dramatically.

When Harry says that, Zayn grins at him. Harry just grins back, because _this _is the reason he really brought Zayn with him today. Because there have been speculations and gossips and the like, and Harry got so frustrated he decided he wanted to do something about it. Something _big_.

Big truths and all that, he reckons.

Jeff and Ant will probably kill him. But it’ll be worth it.

“Well, babe,” Zayn sighs, “I used to flirt for a living, once upon a time.”

Harry hears a small commotion outside the booth, but he pointedly keeps his eyes on Zayn, and keeps grinning. “Oh, really, babe? I thought you were an architect?”

“I am an architect _now_,” Zayn amends with a tut, “but I think you remember that I was an escort when we started dating.”

Harry hears Jeff scream a long series of profanities, even though the booth should be soundproof. He turns to look at his team, and Janine is there covering her face with her hands while Ant and Jeff are trying to prevent each other from fainting, if the way they’re clutching at each other’s shirt is any indication.

Harry gasps theatrically. “Zayn! That was a secret!” he stage-whispers in the mic.

Zayn grins. “Sorry. I must be rusty. There was a time in which I was ace at keeping secrets.”

Harry hums. “Especially if they were dirty,” he confirms. “What are we airing after this revelation which will give the paps the time of their lives for a long, long while?”

Zayn grins. “_Olivia _by Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson,” he says. “Just one more time, babe.”

Harry chuckles. “Your wish is my command, my love. This is _Olivia _by yours truly and Louis Tomlinson. You’ve listened to _Rambles For Breakfast_, I hope you have a wonderful day. Harry Styles out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! This fic has been a ride, I won't lie. But I enjoyed writing it so so so much, so I hope you enjoyed it just the same! Let me know what you're thinking :)
> 
> As usual, I am also on Tumblr as wont-you-stay-till-the-am.tumblr.com, come hit me up if you wanna talk.
> 
> I have a lot more in store, so stay tuned. Till next time!


End file.
